


Sins of Omission

by MurielJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Castration, Discussion of Adoption, Drug Addiction, F/M, Ketamine, Self-Harm, Surgery, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurielJones/pseuds/MurielJones
Summary: Jess and Sam meet at Standford, and it gets complicated fast.  Sam tells Jess early on that he plans to be castrated, Jess is accepting to the point of unperturbed;  it would all be quite simple if Sam and Jess didn't want to start a family (whatever that means, ask them, not me), if Jess family wasn't very invested in her 'normal' life, and if it was safe to have underground surgery performed by shady characters, and if Sam didn't have too much of an attachment to his brother.  If you don't like wincest, while there isn't any in Sins of Omission, there is later in "Like a dog".This story is about Jess and Sam, but almost exclusively from Jess' viewpoint.  It is about Jess and her family, and how a normal girl decides that a life with Sam Winchester is for her.  Its complicated, because it's always complicated.And it ends badly, but we knew that already, did we?  ...and it's a prequel to "Like a dog".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had terrible trouble writing this chapter, ch2 and ch3 are about ready to go, and if I find a better way to create flow I will come back to it. Promise the flow is better in the rest of the story.

**This whole damn week, Sam and Brady’s dorm room.**

‘She’s cute Sam, you should ask her out.’

‘You ask her yet?’ 

‘Sam, I know you like her.’

‘Are you _avoiding_ her?’

_If Brady asks me another damn question about Jess I will honest to god deck him, which wouldn’t be good for either of us, but mostly not him.  He should just fucking butt out of my shit._

   **Wednesday evening, 8:59, Jess’ voicemail:** Jess, this is Brady.  Are you as much of a pussy as Sam is?  Call him, apparently he doesn’t know how to use a phone.

**Wednesday evening, shortly after 9pam, Sam and Brady’s dorm room.**

“I told her to ask you, since you insist on screwing around.”

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Could Brady just not have done that? Shit._

“Fuck it Brady!”  Sam yells at me, us. 

_Sam is a big guy, and if half of what Azazel says is true then Sam Winchester is Lucifer’s one and only, and I’m not sure why I’m setting Sam up with Jessica Moore but I’m just one more deplorable in the basket, and we don’t get told anything, except what to do to keep our hides attached to our bones. And, in the interests of keeping this particular hide attached to these particular bones I had better start paying attention to Sam—he’ bigger than he looked a moment ago, and if he were human I could take him, easily, but he is a different deal, and I don’t like those clenched fists, or those flexing fingers, or those nostrils.  I don’t frighten easily but Sam is furious, not furious, he’s terrified, maybe he’s gay and didn’t want his family to know, the devil’s chosen one being a pansy, that would change up the conversation in hell, not that they could know, his family, not hell, you never know anything in hell, Sam doesn’t talk to them, maybe they do know, and that’s why they don’ talk to him, or maybe they know what he really is, you’d think the Winchesters would have done something about him by now._

_Sam turns to look out the window, he’s collecting strength in his shoulders, I can feel his power, and I should apologize, wiggle out of this, just for now, but I need to do get this done, or…or…or…or, and I would get it done, if I wasn’t too frightening to speak, he may be scared not angry but he is one frightening bastard, I’ve been to hell and I know what frightening is._

_And thank god Sam’s phone rings._

**Wednesday Evening, slightly after 9pm, Sam’s voicemail:  ‘** This is Sam (pause) leave me a message _.’_

_So I don’t, because maybe Sam just isn’t into details, or phone messages, or me.  Maybe he’s just not that into me.  But I don’t believe that, think that, because I’ve seen him look at me, then look away, look at me from under his bangs and then leave the room.  God, I hope he’s not going to the bathroom to jerk off, like some kind of creeper.  Maybe he’s into things that I never want to know about._

  **Wednesday evening, 9:04 Jess’ Voicemail:**

Hi, Jess, this is uh…Sam, uh, I saw you called…I know I should have called you sooner, and its not that I don’t like you or anything …(pause), its just that I have some stuff that you should know and…(long pause), I can’t tell you.  And, anyhow, I just...(significant pause), I…you want to meet me somewhere? Just as friends or something, (all rushed and jumbled together) totryit-us-itsomething out.  (Pause, silence, Sam curses under his breath.) Click.

  **Wednesday Evening, slightly after 9pm, Sam and Brady’s dorm room.**

_It occurs to me, a little late, that I’m going to step out the way and let little ‘ol Brady handle this one himself._

  **Wednesday evening, 9:05 Jess’ Voicemail:** Jess, this is Brady, don’t do it, there’s something up with Sam.  Jess, listen to me, please, I don’t have long…

  **Wednesday evening, 9:05 Jess’ Voicemail:** Uh, this is Sam--again.  Plsedon’tlistentotheothervoicemailthatIleftyou.  ButIguessyoualreadydid.  Isoundlikeacompletecreaper, Ithink, sorry.

 **Wednesday evening, 9:05 Jess’ Voicemail:** Jess, this is Brady, do _NOT_ go out with Sam, don’t even talk to him, he is one scary son of a bitch.  Just stay away from him.  Sam is fucking dangerous…he’s psycho, he’s…going to kill someone, he’s completely fucking lost it…

  **Wednesday evening, 9:06 Jess’ Appartment**

_I have never ever heard someone sound as frightened as Brady did in that message._

**Wednesday evening, 9:07Sam and Brady’s dorm room.**

_Damn, stupid, kind, trustworthy Brady, trust him to screw all this up.  At least Sam didn’t kill us, but I need to get back into the driver’s seat before Azazel kills me.  Re-kills me._

**Thursday evening, 7ish.**

“Hi, this is Jess,” (which is guess is obvious since it’s my phone, but it’s psycho killer Sam that’s calling, and I _really_ like psycho-killer Sam I really, really hope he’s not a psycho-killer because I’m not ready to die.  Brady said Sam lost it and he looked as though he knew how to kill someone, not that I know how Brady would know how someone would look like that.) 

“You frightened the shit out of Brady.”  Silence.  “Sam?”

“Uh,”

“You called me?”

“Uh, can we go out on a date, not a date, friends date…just talk?”

 And, at-fucking-last, I have a date with Sam Winchester.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Jess get together, and then things fall apart. Sam is complicated, it turns out that Jess is complicated, and ambivalent. Jess finds out more about Sam than she wanted to know. It's long, it's emotional, suicide is 'discussed', and Jess may have a drug habit, and some self-harming behavior...just wanted to say the triggery stuff up front. Oh, and there is a hint of unrequited wincest, Jess certainly has some issues with that relationship, and not without reason. Jess' Mom shows up, a lot, get ready for Jess' Mom. And Jess' Dad sort of hovers around in the back ground.

Jess had never lied to her mother before, well, out and out lied, about the important stuff, and this wasn’t an out and out lie, more of an omission.  ‘ _Sins of omission’_ repeated itself in Jess’ head, follow by: ‘ _Respect thy father and thy mother_.’  Jess paused her useless mantra taking a back seat to the fruitcake she was making.  ‘ _You’ll like it Sam…it’s got brandy, lots of brandy….no…you need to wait to Christmas…no you can’t set it on fire_.’  Although technically Sam could set it on fire, it wouldn’t be the first thing he had set on fire, like her entire ethical understanding of herself when it came to truth, and family.

She shook her head either to clear it, or to get her story straight, she wasn’t quite clear which:  ‘ _I don’t know what to say’_ she muttered in her head.  Can you mutter in your head? Jess didn’t quite know that either, maybe this was how it felt to lie, and she didn’t mutter often, mostly when she was sorting our a recipe that she had sort of forgotten, or maybe when she was a little high or perhaps confused she would chatter the ingredients to herself, or when one component of a picture wouldn’t gel with the rest, or when she forgot a line of a song.  ‘ _I don’t know what to say because it’s so complicated_ ,’ Jess told herself, ‘ _I don’t know what to say because it’s so complicated, and I don’t want to betray Sam’s secret, and I’m the only, only, only person he’s ever told._ ’  Jess felt stupid like she was seven and trying to keep  playground secrets, and felt sick because Sam had placed so much trust in her, and sad because lying to her Mom was never something she wanted to do – never something she had done. ‘ _Sins of omission’_ she said softly.  _I don’t want to betray Sam_ , she told herself, _because I love him, and it’s way too soon to love him, but I really do, and its every bit as complicated as he said it would be._

When Jess’ mom asked if she had met someone – how did her Mom know before Jess said anything – when she had asked if Jess had met someone Jess had said ‘Yes.’ When her Mom had asked a month, and a hundred phone calls, later if she was dating, Jess hadn’t said: ‘We’re trying, and its hard because I can hardly touch him.’  It’s hard for Jess to lie about something that affects everything she does, but she does, because telling the truth would have been the beginning of betraying Sam’s trust. Jess had said: “Yes Mom.”  She had _only_ said “Yes mom.”  She hadn’t even said, ‘It’s complicated.’ Even her fB status didn’t say ‘It’s complicated’. 

When her Mom asked, the next day, next week, month, how it was going she said:  “Great!”, not: ‘He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and he’s so gentle, and he’s so vulnerable, and so human, so present, so alive…and I want to feel those giant gentle hands on me in ways that I just can’t.’  In ways Jess certainly wouldn’t discuss with her mother anyway.  She couldn’t tell her Mom:  ‘He’s so kind, and sometimes the way I want to thank him for his kindness is something he – his body –  isn’t ok with.’  Or ‘He’s courageous, and if you only knew you would love him so much more for placing all his trust in me’.  Or, ‘God Mom, he’s hot, but he won’t, can’t, won’t, I don’t know it’s hard to tell sometimes times.’ 

When her Mom keeps asking Jess doesn’t say: ‘It’s so frustrating, and I’m so sad for him, and I worry about him all the time, and sometimes I feel like when he told me his damn secret that he wouldn’t tell me unless I promised not to tell – and I thought he was going to tell me he was a psycho with a stash of guns and knives under his bed – then when he told me his secret, and asked to me promise never to tell, I somehow felt that somehow I could never break up with him even though we weren’t dating yet – not that I would want to break up with him Mom, because I love him so much and want to marry him, and want to have children with him, somehow, somehow and that bit is hard, but Sam and I will figure it out, just know that I love him, and love is still so much harder than I thought.’  Not that she wanted to break up with him. 

Not that she could _ever_ have said the last bit to her Mom – the bit about how she couldn’t break up with Sam – because then her Mom would think Jess wanted to break up with Sam. Her Mom had met Sam, and loved Sam.  Her Dad had met Sam and approved, not just ‘ _He’s ok, hope she breaks up with him before it gets serious’_ nearly approved, not, ‘ _Jess this is something I want you to think through_ ’ half approved, but her Dad wanted her to marry Sam, not that he’d say that, but you know these things about family.  Her parents had effectively chosen Sam for her, already made him part of their family.  ‘ _It’s so sad about his Mom, must be hard to go through life without his family around him._ ’ Jess’ Mom had said.

Jess doesn’t say to her Mom:  ‘Loosing his Mom isn’t the thing that makes his face so hard, makes his eyes far away, when he should just cry – but he can’t, doesn’t, because he’s trying too hard to be a real man – like his father, who he hates, I think; or maybe be a man for his brother who he loves too much. Or maybe he just gets that hard, lost, faraway look ‘cause he’s as damn confused as I am about why he needs, what he needs, and what he is.’ Jess doesn’t say that last thing, the very last thing even to herself when she mutters as she paints because she doesn’t want it to be true. 

Jess doesn’t say: ‘Momma, I have to cry for Sam because he can’t talk about that thing that makes his face hard, and his heart hidden, and makes him turn his back to me and leave my room.’  Jess doesn’t say ‘Mom, I want be with a man, but Sam hurts himself so much by trying be one that I wish he would just stop.’  She doesn’t say, ‘Mom, no matter what he is, I’ll be with him.’  She doesn’t say that to herself, she doesn’t want to think about why she would need to say that to herself.

Jess can’t tell her Mom what she thinks is the real reason Sam left his family, can’t ask her if she should confront Sam about it, can’t ask her Mom if she should take Sam to task on it.  She can’t ask her Mom if she should, somehow, insist that Sam tell his family.  She knows that, no, Sam will never call his father, but his brother, Sam might call his brother.  She doesn’t even tell her Mom that Sam sort of has family because he relaxes and smiles when he talks about his brother, and Jess thinks that Dean might be mixed up somehow in how Sam feels about his body, and that Sam should talk to Dean about it, she can’t ask her Mom if she should dig though Sam’s stuff and find Dean’s number and call him, because Sam will have it somewhere, even though she knows that it’s an invasion of Sam’s privacy because this is so important and irrevocable.    Jess scrunches her hands into her hair sometimes as she waits in her kitchen for the cookies to come out of the oven, she parts her hair down the center with her fingers and does a double French pulling the braids tight but leaving the ends to fall loose.  Jess can’t tell her Mom that she thinks Sam is stupid and should talk to his family, no matter what  his father said, and she can’t tell Sam that either.  What exactly does Sam think Dean is going to do if he tells Dean his secret?  Stop talking to him?  Jess tugs her hair braids out as she waits for the cookies.

Jess’ Mom asks if Jess and Sam are getting married, she means ‘when’.  Jess has become good at this – hedging, avoiding, not quite lying – protecting Sam.  So Jess says she is waiting for Sam to ask.  She doesn’t say: ‘He has this thing, this massive thing and he can’t touch me, won’t touch me, refuses to marry me, until it’s taken care of.’  She has to be extra cautious with the truth of this one with her Mom, now that she and Sam are more than a year into this relationship, she can’t say:  ‘I love him, and I’m so scared for him, and it’s getting worse, and he tried to get help, he went to therapists, and groups, and stuff, but he’s going to have to have the surgery, I know he is, and neither of us really know what to do because he’s going to have to go underground it get it, and I don’t think its safe but I don’t know how much longer he can live like this.’ The next time her Mom asks, sounding concerned – how long has her mom been sounding concerned – Jess says ‘We’re waiting until Sam graduates.’ And follows up with, ‘I love him.’ because her Mom will believe her, even if Sam won’t; that’s probably why she hasn’t said it to Sam.

Sam starts calling Jess’ parents Mom and Dad.  Sam and Jess move in together.  Mom is ecstatic about both. Mothers aren’t meant to be ecstatic about live-in-arrangements, mothers are meant to tell their girls to ‘ _wait for marriage_ ’. In more than one of the ‘infinite and endless’ (as Sam calls them) phone conversations, Mom tells Jess to _‘be careful’_ and _‘you’re going into your final year, you need to finish’._ Jess hedges, she’s already told her Mom they are waiting to get married, she doesn’t want to tell her Mom they are waiting to have sex, aren’t having sex, and she definitely can’t tell her Mom why.  So Jess edges around her Mom’s increasingly blunt and invasive questions. Eventually Mom tells Jess outright to ‘ _be sure you take the pill’_. 

_Like Jess would ever forget that._

But instead Jess blurts out:  “We don’t…” and trails off, hand over her mouth. 

Her Mom is silent.

Jess is shocked into her own silence at coming so close to betraying Sam’s trust. 

Jess had been walking across campus as she chatted to her mom on her cell phone, increasingly annoyed at her Mom’s inability to take a hint, but she stops now, back against a tree, dropping her pack to her feet, folding her knees under her Indian cotton dress and sitting down, resting at the foot of the tree, happily painted toes poking under the fringed end of her skirt and over the end of her sandals as she plays with the sand at her feet.  Silence isn’t usually awkward between them, it’s more a mark of familiarity, well worn paths of family.

“You’re …waiting?”

Jess starts laughing, god, _she’s_ not waiting, she frustrated, she’s despairing, she’s ready to be taken, fucked and taken, to love Sam until she begs for more and less at the same time, she’s desperate.  Instead of descending into the giggles that her mother was expecting to follow Jess’ laughter Jess is abruptly silent.  In that moment, Jess is angry enough at Sam that she just wants to tell her Mom. And for fuck’s sakes it’s a waste to have Sam’s body and be a virgin.  And she’s just fucking fine.  Then her Mom’s question suddenly needs an answer, a sensible answer:  “No Mom!  Hell, no. Me?”  Now Jess _is_ giggling, embarrassed to have been quite so truthful, embarrassed to have sworn in front of her mother, but her Mom does know who her girl is.  But Jess still needs a stop gap answer, something to fill in between where they are now, and the truth: “It’s Sam,” Jess is willfully quiet, intentionally settled, tugging a stray strand, knotting a loose end one handed, and she has to say something more, her Mother is waiting, and she is dangerously close to the truth.  “Sam wants to wait.” Jess knows the whole thing won’t sound all together right to her Mom; later Jessica knows her Mom doesn’t believe a damn word because her Mom doesn’t bring it up again.  Her Dad brings it up, carefully, trying to find out what the hell’s going on, and Jess just lies, her Dad doesn’t know her like her Mom does.

When her Dad asks her gently if Sam is gay, and if there is anything ‘ _you would like to tell us Jessie’_ , and says she can tell him anything, and says they will love her no matter what (and Jess knows, yes, Jess knows that, she does). Jess laughs and hugs him, and says most Dads would be happy about the waiting thing, and how could he not just believe her?  She makes the last sounds light, joking, but it’s an accusation she’s sorry she threw her father’s way. Anyway Jess smiles and says she would love Sam even if he were gay.  She would and she wouldn’t say this even to herself though: she might be ok with Sam being gay and not hers instead of Sam being tied to a secret that hurts him so badly.  She doesn’t say this to herself, and maybe it wouldn’t be true: but she might be ok with Sam being not hers if that meant him not feeling so hardly human that he tells her it is ok if she leaves, he would understand if she needs to go, he knows she needs a man can fulfill all her needs, maybe she should find someone not as damaged as him.  Jess lied to her Dad and maybe a little to herself and said that she would be in love with Sam forever even if he ‘ _couldn’t give her everything_.’;  hastily adding that she was plenty sure that Sam could, then she winked at her Dad, and then blushed.  They left it at that. 

Then Mom asked about babies. 

Jess called her Mom at least once a week, twice, three times, who was counting (Jess thought Sam might be) checked in; Jess didn’t change that, she was careful not to change that.  Mom called every week, twice a week every week, at a minimum, not quite daily, she was careful about that.   Mom visited, not all the time, every three weeks, week or two, or so, she would be ‘Just passing through’; or those weak excuses that Jess had grown used to, and Sam seemed amused by: ‘Biggest sale I’ve seen all year – we should get you something special.’ or ‘We have to have tickets for the opening but your father is in Georgia.’ Or ‘Best Baklava I’ve ever tasted, and I thought you and Sam might like to try some’.  But Sam always accepted ‘Just passing through.’ as enough.   Jess didn’t argue with something that worked.  When Jess’ Mom came by she and Jess bought shoes and visited cousins, and went to ballets that Sam was just happy to not pretend an interest in; in which Sam was just as happy to not pretend an interest – Jess was happy to not be an English major.

Mom and Jess hadn’t been talking about babies, not yet, they had been talking about Jess’ art projects, and Sam’s prospects in graduate studies, and if he would get scholarships – Jess was sure he would, but her Mom said she and Dad could help out anyhow – Sam had opportunities at other schools, but Jess’ parents thought she and Sam should stay in Palo Alto, they chatted about whether Jess could get a job in Palo Alto, which would work for her and Sam, she’d applied to help at a few galleries, which would be perfect, Mom thought part time would be better because Jess would need to keep things up for Sam while he studied, and they discussed  pie recipes because Mom was already planning a graduation party for them, and Sam had this pie thing (because of Dean, but it was too complicated to explain Dean to her mom), when her Mom thought that some flowers might be in order for the graduation party Jess suspected this was rehearsal for their wedding reception, and Mom said, ‘just something small,’ which Jess didn’t believe for a moment.  She and her Mom had been picking wedding dresses, not for real, just on the internet, celebrity weddings, Vera Wang’s new collection – which Jess could never afford (her Mom had corrected her with: ‘Don’t be silly, you, Jessica Moore, are only getting married once, you should have exactly what you want.’)  

Some days Jess wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted. 

Sam hadn’t asked her yet anyhow, but it felt closer.  Sam knew what he was doing, he was going to therapy again, he was researching his options, he was working out, taking care of himself, eating right, taking control of his body, he was built, at home Sam wore T-shirts that showed his lean, muscled arms and jeans that hugged his tight butt, sometimes she would catch sight of Sam changing his clothes and Jess couldn’t help notice.  It was going to be ok, and she was going to choose dresses, and their graduation party would be a rehearsal for their wedding. Sam called her parents Mom and Dad. 

Jess and Sam felt closer, houses in the suburbs closer, going for drives in her little car to make believe where they could live, something older, not too old (Sam was pretty insistent about not too old, he got the weirdest things in his head sometimes), maybe something in the country, and they could have chickens and horses and things.  Sam couldn’t fix things, Dean had always done that, so she heard – but Sam could learn, Jess was plenty sure of that – Jess could do the interior, she was good at that.  She drove, Sam liked to sit and watch, but he also liked to take control of her car stereo, which was ok with her, but he looked even happier when she swatted his hand away and insisted on her music, Sam was an odd damn bird sometimes.  But he did silly mini-braids in her hair while she was driving, and she liked that.

Sam thought he could earn ok while he was doing graduate work; school, and a full time job, and they had to save for, for…neither Jess nor Sam said it aloud.  Sam hated talking about it, felt that he should have been born that way, hated thinking about having it done.  Jess respected what Sam needed.  But Sam would have to earn pretty well, Jess had done research, internet research for what it was worth, and Thailand looked like a good option, and that would cost as much as a down on a house, not a big house,  not a house anywhere near Palo Alto, but with her parents help they could afford something. Anyway Sam wouldn’t take loans – he never wanted anyone to look to deep into his…his anything, money, past, history. Jess noticed.  She just chose to respect how much privacy Sam needed – and anyhow her parents would be thrilled about Sam not wanting to get into debt.  Jess wondered how the hell they would get a house without debt, since they couldn’t get enough money together for…at least she thought they couldn’t, Sam really took control of finances.  

Still Jess thought that Sam working and studying would take too much time away from their family – she said ‘family’ and not just ‘me’ – to see what would happen, and ‘me’ sounded pathetically jealous. Sam didn’t take the bait.  Jess thought that maybe they should take her parents up on their offer of financial help, but she didn’t bring it up with Sam. Sam was independent.  Jess worried that Sam thought a real man would take care of the household; Jess knew her mom thought that, and she knew that eventually Sam would be able to do that.  Sam was going to have to earn a fuck of a lot to be able to buy a house without loans; unless he could fake documents – Jess filed that away under ideas she had never had.  Sometimes Sunday afternoon drives were more stress than fantasy and Jess would tug out her pack of ciggies and offer one to Sam and he would smile at her and refuse, but he would also of that happy look he got when he thought about Dean.  Other than those things Sunday afternoon drives were about everything that Jess ever wished she had.

Sam seemed to want to give her everything – its just that he didn’t always have the money to buy it – he would indulge her fantasies, just as though he really meant to give her anything she ever wanted.  One drowsy afternoon Jess and Sam drove past a herd of horses and Jess squealed, it was half put-on, and half real, at least in part a test for Sam;  Jess had squealed like she had when she was a little girl, and her mom had said no because ponies were too dangerous, and after her brother…even when she was little Jess knew her brother had changed everything, changed her Mom.  Jess may have cajoled Sam and fake pleaded, and it was all in good fun, but she couldn’t barter with sex, Jess wished she didn’t feel like something was missing.  Sam had laughed it off, her but Jess worried that her pretend begging got to Sam somehow, like he was worried she would leave over something as stupid as a herd of horses.  But Sam had spent money he worked so hard for, money that Jess knew had other uses, better uses, to keep Jess happy, and she knew he was giving more than he should, she knew he was saving money for more important things, but she knew they didn’t really talk about that, not directly about that.  Talking about things didn’t make them happen – or not have happened.

They had begun to talk ‘family’, Sam said ‘family’ when she did, but there weren’t times set, there weren’t plans, not like with graduate school, and jobs and house buying, and horses, Sam cleaned that barn so Jess could ride horses, for some reason Sam liked the damn horses.  Sam liked outdoors, it made him quiet, Jess liked that for him. She had just thought that Sam knew what she meant by family. Honestly she had thought she knew what she meant by family.

Jess and her Mom hadn’t been talking about babies, but here was her Mom, in person, ‘ _just passing through’_.  Here was her Mom doing a check up on Sam and Jess and how things were going, the check-ups were more often, and Jess hoped her parents weren’t – she didn’t know why they would be, she did, but  hopefully they didn’t – worried about her and Sam. Then her Mom asked – examining her coffee mug, checking her phone for texts, digging in her purse for what Jess knew was mother’s little helper, her Mom had asked if she had picked out a pattern for her flatware and Jess hadn’t answered, because she had more overwhelming issues than the correct dinner service.Then Mom looked over her shoulder to see that Sam wasn’t hiding out and listening in, and out of the fucking blue asked:  “Are you and Sam starting your family soon?” 

Her Mom set down her coffee. 

Jess had set hers down also, she folded her hands in her lap, she licked her lips, composed her body.

Her Mom could have stopped there, she could have, but she asked (did she have to hit that low, and maybe she didn’t mean to, Jess was in no mood for asking in the moment): “Do you still want to be a Mom, Jessie?” 

Jess had been so careful to wait for the right time to explain this to Sam, which was soon, because they had started talking about family, nearly, and she knew she needed to come clean with him, not that she’d done anything wrong, but this would need a conversation, more than one, and Sam, Sam might be hurt by her silence at this point, she really didn’t know how to get around that.  But explaining how deep she was into not telling Sam wasn’t what she wanted to talk to her Mom in the moment, in the moment she hissed at her Mom, dangerous, and hurt: “Just in case you don’t remember, I’ve never wanted anything more in my whole life.” 

Jess paused, she took a breath, she took a break, she breathed, she didn’t braid her hair, she didn’t apologize, although her Mother may have taken her brief silence to be that, “Yes, Momma, I want to kids, we want kids, we’re...”  She let out a breath, and forced herself to not cry in front of her mother, ever, the fuck, again.

Then Jess saw Sam, silent, why was he always so silent, standing in the doorway, balancing on one foot, pulling his running shoes off, getting ready to throw them down in the hall so Jess could complain later. Sam walked quietly barefoot out of the apartment, shutting the door carefully behind.  

Jess stood up—unsure as to whether to deal with the inevitable fall out with her Mother, or to go after Sam.  She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and turned back to her Mom. 

A wrinkle of hesitation crossed Mom’s face though she had just thought better of something she intended to say—there were about five hundred things that Jess thought her mom might spit right back at her.  Instead her Mom tilted her head to the door, and quietly said:  “Go after him Jessie.”

Jess still didn’t move. 

“You can tell me what’s going on baby, when he hurts this much he’s going to hurt you.  We know you’re both hurting Jess, and it’s been going on too long.’’

Jess was standing staring at her Mom. 

“Go Jessie, go save your man.” 

Then Jess flew out the door hoping she could find a way to believe in herself the way her mother believed in her.

Jess walked, she tried not to run, she walked, where she and Sam usually walked, she walked to the first coffee shop where they had their first not-a-date, to friends’ houses, _their_ friends houses, she walked across campus stopping at the library—how was she meant to find  him in a library that size anyhow?  When Sam went running he didn’t usually just rush out the door without a word, he told her when he was coming home, even at night he would leave a note saying when he left and that he was coming home, even if he didn’t know when, he’d say that at least, ‘Be back.’ He was careful to tell her he was safe.  Usually, even in the middle of the night, Sam would have his running shoes on, he would have his keys—not that actually having keys mattered if you were Sam.  Sam didn’t just run off like _this_ , he didn’t even have shoes on—at least that eliminated the library.

Jess swallowed down the lump in her throat and bit her bottom lip before it could start quivering. 

Jess left phone messages.  She sat down, forced her hands to stop shaking and called Sam, and for the fucking record was going to be damned if would be made to run around behind a man, walking was infuriating enough.  Jess grabbed a coffee and waited for her phone to ring.  That was something else, Jess would not wait around for a man.  She made damn sure Sam, or at least his messaging, understood both of those clearly.  She couldn’t make herself go home yet, and anyway she was pretty sure Sam wouldn’t be there.

Her Mom left Jess a message saying she thought it was better that she go on home, Jess should let her know if they could help, and not to worry she, they, still loved Sam, and if they could find a way to help him though this, whatever this was, they would.  Jess’ heart turned over when her stomach did, she could tell her parents, and they would help Sam, god help them all – and her parents would probably be driven to saying that in private – they wouldn’t understand, but he was family and they would help Sam. 

Jess left Sam messages:  ‘ _You don’t get to walk out on us just because you don’t want something and I do.’_ She didn’t know if that was true.

How in all the fuck’s sakes had they not discussed this?  Hadn’t they discussed this?  Hadn’t they said normal, that was what Sam said, all he wanted was normal, wasn’t kids normal?  Jess was vaguely annoyed that Sam had clumped her in with ‘normal’, but that could be dealt with later. Hadn’t they said family?  Didn’t family mean kids?  How had they come this far, and not discussed this?  How had Sam taken this fucking long to get that family meant kids?  Did family mean dogs?  Did Sam want a dog? Why in the hell was she using a code word for babies, children, whatever, dogs, live off-spring, with Sam anyhow?

Jess had no god-dammed idea how much Sam had heard.  She couldn’t exactly ask him that in a phone message.  He was in no position to run off because she hadn’t shared all her life story with him, he was pretty much a closed book when it came to anything that wasn’t in the moment or, very occasionally, didn’t involve Dean.  But Sam put himself out there, and she just couldn’t, not yet anyhow, she would, but not yet.  She needed to find Sam first anyhow.

‘ _You can’t just end this Sam, you can’t just end us.’_

Fuck all the times he said she should leave because he couldn’t give her what she wanted he had never threatened to leave himself, how hadn’t she seen this coming?

  _‘Sam, you selfish fucking prick, call me back._ ’  She yelled at him, at his message ‘ _Sam just pick up the fucking phone._ ’  (His voice message was still the same, she had heard it a thousand times and now she hated it.)  ‘ _I won’t give this up,’_ Jess snarled into the phone, _‘I won’t give up on us just because you walked out.’_  

Jess never left a message saying ‘We’ll talk this through.’ Or ‘We can make this work.’  Or ‘We can compromise.’

Eventually Sam showed up – after midnight, rang his own door bell, and hugged Jess stiffly when she let him in  – looking away, that hard façade struggling to keep its place in front of Jess.  Sam said he thought they had better end it.  Jess heard in there not just this relationship but ‘end his own life’, because he had never said it out loud before, because he never said important things out loud, but the longer he needed this, the longer he and his body needed different things – were different things – the longer he looked for help, the more Jess knew that Sam would do it.  She clung to him for his life even when he tried gently to push her away, away because his body responded to her, away so he could deny the problem, deny how bad it was. ‘No.’ said Jess, and how come everyone else’s proposal needed a ‘yes’ to seal the deal, and hers needed ‘no’. 

_He needed help, god he’d needed help forever, and what had she said? ‘The school must have someone who can help you?’ Jess had said, and plunged Sam into a morass of mental health services.  Sam was caught up in a circuit of physiatrists and analysis and group therapy. ‘There should be support groups in San Fran that can help.’  Jess had thrown Sam into roomfuls of people who didn’t want him. Jess had pretended normal with Sam, lived as normally as they could, slept in different rooms when his body betrayed him over and over with Jess in the bed beside him.  She had supported him, she hadn’t told anyone._

Jess had clung to him and let him fucking suffer for a moment because she needed this, ‘I love you, Jess.’ It was only the second time.  It sounded too much like good bye, and it left Jess feeling deeply uncomfortable, and wondering about taking her Mom up on her offer.

The first time Sam had said, ‘I love you.’ He was sitting at the of her bed – facing the wall, long legs bent at the knee and crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on his knees, one hand clutching the other wrist – sitting how he did when they kissed and his body needed and he just needed that to stop happening.  He had sat there, looking away, willing this not to be happening, Jess sat on the pillows, legs hugged up against her chest, just watching him – they had done this a hundred-thousand times. Then Sam has said, ‘Jess, I love you.’  Jess had said: ‘I love you back.’

The next time, the third time, they were drunk – and it was horrific, horrible, terrible – Jess wished they had both been drunk enough to forget it, but they weren’t.  After that night was the first time they _seriously_ discussed going to the black market to get Sam castrated -  that word – or doing it at home.

They were drunk – it took more than a few shots to get Sam beyond tipsy, that night he was as mothered as she was– and they were kissing, Jess in a moment of drunk frustration had stripped Sam’s shirt, shirts, off him, and Sam hadn’t gently moved her hand aside, he’d pulled her closer, and Jess felt Sam getting hard, and she was ready for him to pull away like he usually did, when he whispered: “Let me try, let me help you.” Jess had pushed her body against Sam, his hard against her soft.  Sam had shifted away, but instead of getting up he rolled over on top of her, his hair falling over his face, lifted himself onto an elbow,  unbuckled her belt one handed as though he did this all the time, popped the button to her jeans, pulled the zipper down as he slipped long fingers into her panties, into her wet, long fingers travelled carefully down her slit, slowly feeling for her entrance, circling there, and then letting his fingers travel back up to her clit, slipping a finger on either side.  She should have known this would go wrong, very wrong.  Sam was holding his lean body over her curves, resting his head in the crook of her neck, she could hear the short gasps of his breathing, she could feel a tremor where his arm held him up.  She just wanted to be his first, his first everything, his first kiss, his first blow job, the first pussy Sam ever tasted, his first sex, real sex, Sam looses his virginity sex.  Jess wanted to reach for Sam’s cock, he was a big boy, and he might not like it, but she liked it.  She wanted that big cock in her mouth, her pussy, she wanted Sam to come on her, in her, she wanted to have his babies.  Jess was rocking against Sam’s fingers, trying to get them into her, lost in him, his smell, his strength, his skin—she was talking as she begged for more more more, deeper Sam, please, fuck me, all I want is you to fuck me.  Except she was drunk, and she must have been talking aloud, saying yes, and fuck me, and I want, want, you, us, babies, wanted you so long, every day, in me.  Then Jess realized that Sam’s breathing wasn’t desire, Sam was crying and he was frightened, he was shaking, he was hiding himself from her and trying to give her what she wanted as best he could, and he was a natural—maybe not the most sensitive time to think of that, but it was true, the first time he was touching a woman and oh-my-good-fucking-god, what his fingers were doing. 

Sam didn’t cry, never cried, and he was crying now. 

Jess had seen Sam with tears in his eyes, when he talked about the last time he saw Dean, he worshiped Dean, didn’t talk to him often, but loved him.  Jess sometimes felt Dean was her competition even though Sam didn’t talk to him. Just right then though Jess would have given so much to talk to Dean, to tell him what was happening with Sam, to ask him what the hell to do, because he had known Sam so long surely Dean must know?  What was she meant to do?  Momentarily Jess let herself believe she couldn’t do it.

But instead of pushing Sam away Jess gently lifted his hand out of her panties, rolled them over together until they were facing each other, locked a strong leg over Sam’s hips, muttering to him and rocking him and telling him over and over:  “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Sam eventually drew Jess against him with great big paws, and whispered, “I love you.” And Jess heard him say, “I’m so sorry we can’t have this.”  Sam said “I love you.” Jess heard Sam say: “I can’t give you what you want.”

Jess said “We’ll find a way.” 

Jess knew she hadn’t said that before to Sam, but it felt as though that was all she said every day.

Sam and Jess held each other because not for the first time she was afraid he would drown them both, so they clung to a dream of hearth and home, and each other.  Jess and Sam were always so good with his boundaries, he communicated them, she respected them, he trusted her to respect them, tonight they might not be too drunk to forget, but too drunk to figure out complicated things they clung. 

Laying there together Jess went over in her head the days of being madly in love with Sam, she kissed his shaggy hair – shaggy like a dog - and tried to tell the truth to herself, how Sam had told her his horrible secret, and it hadn’t been so terrible, but it had been hard, hard, hard.  Everyday hard, wearing on them.  He hadn’t messed around he’d told her up front, she appreciated that, that he knew how important being honest was to her, then he took that from her.  Tonight she told him she was tired of lying to her mother.  And she was tired of lying to Sam. 

Sam shifted over, and lay on his back, but didn’t let go of her hand, and didn’t stop crying.  Sam had told her ‘he would appreciate her confidentiality’ (he’d looked stupid and hopeful when he said it) on their first not-a-date; when Jess had said ‘Yes.’ with a smile and batting her eyelashes, showing off her beautiful eyes, Jess had meant ‘Yes, I pinky promise and swear on my own grave to never tell your secret’.  It was good that she had promised so thoroughly, because tonight she wanted to tell her Mom, she wanted to call her Mom in the middle of the night, drunk dial her Mom, and say:  ‘Mom, I love him, with everything I have, everything, and he won’t, can’t have sex with me until it’s done, and he’s tried really, really, tried to find another way past things, but he can’t, and apparently it’s not that easy to be safely castrated in Palo Alto, and for some reason I thought that college health service would help, or something, I don’t know what I thought, but it’s too late because I love him.’ 

And she could have said:  ‘Mom, I don’t know what to do, because we are so far into this, and I haven’t told him about the baby, my baby, and its not that simple anymore, not that it ever was.’

Jess cursed herself, because when she told Sam yes, she would keep that secret; she had no idea of what she was getting herself into.  And he had no idea what he was getting himself into because she hadn’t been brave enough to put herself out there, now it felt too late.  Jess held Sam’s hand tight, she wasn’t going to let go of her Sam if it fucking killed her.  At least that was what she thought at the time.

She might not be able to say those things to her mother, but Jess’ Sam wasn’t just sex, or not-sex, he had read her Latin set work as quickly as he read English, it would have been less freaky if he hadn’t also written her Latin papers as easily. Religion, mythology, military tactics, ancient Greek – an abridged anthology of things Sam Winchester had arrived in Jess’ life knowing.  Sam, her Sam, the man who stayed in her life, held her hand, all the time, her friends thought it was cute, her friends called then _Jessnsam,_ and all his friends were her friends now, and _they_ thought it was cute how _Samnjess_ always held hands, how his eyes were always on her, how he was always right there, at her back, hand on her shoulder, and she felt safe like she hadn’t in so long.

Jess’ Sam was summer time surprises – she cautiously slid closer to him as his fingers locked into hers – Sam sliding like starlight unexpected and unannounced into her parent’s house at midnight and taking her out into the shadows, laughing at the noises in the dark that he could identify easily, carrying her on his back down roads too rocky for her sandaled feet bringing her to a place where he had a picnic set out in the dark, complete with chocolate brownies made with Jess’ own recipe.  When she got back to Palo Alto from her summer visit home it was with her favorite Chinese take out from San Fran, candles and Mozart waiting for her in her little apartment – Sam again.  Her Sam was silly, loved her hair loose, completely loose and would hide her brushes, and her styling gel, it wasn’t mean, it was just like the brother she nearly had;  her Sam made cookies in the shapes of things; made stories out of her, not his, her, food; her Sam would slip the straps off her bikini, and then grab it and run off;  he would dunk her head in the swimming pool, and then gently tug her hair back and dispense her one of his rare deep kisses. He always lead the way, opened doors to restaurants, helped her into her own little car. Her Sam had her back.

Last fall, this fall, a month ago, a little more – a month after the debacle with her Mom – Sam had taken her to the county fair, a group date, sort of a show and tell about how she and Sam were still together or something for her friends, that was Jess’ plan anyhow, sort of;  she had just wanted to go out and pretend everything was fine, and not worry about what the hell Sam had or hadn’t heard. So Jess and Sam went to the fair, and Sam had told a story about how he and Dean had gone to a fair once, and Dean had won Sam a bear, ‘a teddy bear’ – Sam had corrected himself, as though Dean could quite possibly have obtained a real bear for Sam, as though Dean would have if that’s what Sam wanted.  Jess had laughed as though the story was about how a little brother Sam once was impressed by giant bears.  Sam had hung an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into him, and she had held the strong hand reaching around her shoulder, and woven her fingers between his.

Jess had told her story about her goat, Samuel, aka Sammy, who had fainted, at fair, because he was a fainting goat, and Sam had laughed, and laughed, dimples and all, about Jess’ poor goat—although he had tried to look empathetic.  Then one of the guys  – really this would usually have been funny Jess reminded herself now – asked if her goat, ‘Sammy, like you know who…’ was ‘fixed’, everyone had laughed and moved on.  Sam hadn’t flinched.  The goat was, just in case anybody cared, un-castrated goats stink.

Two minutes later, not even that, they were at Shooting Gallery “ _Win a Bear_ ”.  Now Jess thought Sam might have guided the group that way, maybe she just couldn’t see him flinch, he had a whole life of hiding his feelings.  Their friends – guy friends – had taken shots, pushing each other on, Sam talking trash, which was unlike him, but that afternoon had some bizarre moments, so the guys had taken shots, some good and some bad, mostly bad, exceptionally bad.  Then ‘ _The Bear and Sam’_ is how Jess chooses to think of it: one, two, three, four, five, six – not a pause, made it look easy, incidental, casual – shots dead on.  Her Dad had said those guns were rigged, only a real marksman could make all those shots, Jess sort of wished Sam didn’t have to show off that kind of thing, but she understood, she sort of understood. The kid at the booth appeared taken aback, perhaps a little worried. ‘Only time I’ve ever seen that man!  Where’d you learn that?  You a Ranger or Seal or something?’  Sam had shrugged it off. Jess got the biggest bear.  The guys slapped Sam on the back, and asked him if he was _always_ such a good shot – nudge, and wink. Sam still didn’t flinch, but Jess did.

Laying next to Sam, holding Sam’s hand and nudging her bear with her bare feet Jess remembered how comfortable Sam’s hands had looked on that gun, how familiar, intimate, almost soothing it as he asked it to bow perfectly to his will, and she felt a stupid moment of jealousy, wanted Sam’s hands to be that comfortable bending her to his want.

But that afternoon Sam had presented her with the bear, stroked back her hair, tangled his fingers in it, and pulled her close, pulled her solid, flush against himself, and kissed her forehead, kissed her mouth, deep, almost with tongue, pressed close, body surrounding her, her face held between his giant hands, in front of their friends.  What she could remembered on the way home half asleep from a day spent playing in the sun and holding his hand, was how soft Sam’s lips were, and how solid his muscle was against her, and how blue the sky behind him was, and the sea salt on the air and the sounds of the ocean and the freeway both soothing in the back ground, and how safe she felt; how they had slipped away, and gone for a walk, and eaten ice-cream, and her friends had made all kinds of assumptions and Jess had done nothing to change their minds; she might have encouraged them.  She had held the bear cradled in her arms carefully as she snuggled up against Sam, strong and warm, on their way home.

Jess’ Sam was blindfolded evening hot-dog picnics on the beach; her Sam waiting for her outside classes with flowers that Jess suspected might have been illicitly picked on the University grounds; her Sam indulging her taste for artsy stores, and spending too much on her sometimes, which left Jess feeling guilty and spoiled in the best kind of way all at once. Her mind tangled through drunken thoughts and landed _that_ memory about a quaint occult store that boasted ‘weird, queer, curious and unusual talismans, antiques and books’ on its store front. She had been playing with Sam, a game they had made up for each other: Jess running down the street ahead of Sam, while he followed her easily, barely even loping on long legs, she ducked into stores and pretend to hide, and he pretend surprise at finding her, peek-a-boo for college kids.  Except that Sam only felt like a kid to her in those brief moments. 

Jess had run into the creepy – in retrospect it was creepy, in the moment it looked cute and new age, although Sam really hated new-age things, and Jess meant _hated_ – store. Sam’s usual smile on finding her in pretend hiding faded, and she didn’t know what had come over her, maybe that afternoon she hadn’t been in the mood to indulge his peculiarities, it had felt like a tug though, sort of a mystery pull, only half her own decision, and she had slid further into the store, Sam reached for her arm, and then stopped himself.  ‘I just wanted to look …’ Jess didn’t bother to finish her sentence; Sam knew what she was going to say anyhow.

Sam however…Jess didn’t know what to make of Sam, he was holding her back, and wary; this was beyond his usual compulsive checking on her safety and comfort—which was usually quite soothing, and sometimes annoying, and she tried to return the kindness.  Her Dad loved how attentive Sam was to her;  Jess sometimes found Sam’s constant presence, his constant concern, felt controlling, but she figured Sam would get over it once they were married. 

In that moment however Jess nearly asked Sam if he was ok, when she glanced at his stance she knew exactly what ‘hyper-vigilant’ meant as he cautiously drew her to himself, pulled her into his side, but as his eyes passed steadily over the store owner – probably checking him for weapons Jess thought to herself – stopping for barely a moment, then Sam almost missed half a breath.  That brought back Jess’ nagging question of what had Sam’s family really done anyhow.

Jess lay on her back noticing how boring the ceiling was and wondered when she had become so aware of all Sam’s stress cues.  She thought Sam might still be crying, and she should probably figure out what to do about that, she should probably girlfriend-up and do something.

But as Sam’s eyes crossed over the store-keeper Sam had relaxed, made some non-committal noise and was walking over to, with a rare relaxed smile on his face, antique books.  He seemed so steady, comfortable, with his hands on hundreds of years old volumes of mythology, not all in English. Jess had learned to assume Sam could read whatever language presented itself. She had watched Sam suddenly so happy in his element, those books were expensive, he wouldn’t buy them for himself;   she would come back here to pick one up for his birthday.  Jess figured that she must be spending too much time with Sam, because she let her peripheral vision notice the store owner watching Sam, his gaze turned slightly, and a little smile on his face – which could have stood to be shaved –for the rest the old man hadn’t moved, just stood behind the counter, hands resting on the wooden top—the whole thing starting to feel creapy. The store owner didn’t look like he should own a store in the first place, and in the second place his cap said something about an auto-shop, or a scrap yard, and in the third place Jess was sure she saw a fond look on his face as he watched Sam.  But Jess couldn’t think of a good way out of there, and anyway Sam looked like a little boy for a moment, and she didn’t get to see that often.

So Jess had wandered over to the glass cases of jewelry, a little to watch what Sam did when he had his own space, a little to see if Sam really knew that man, a little because this might have been a window on Sam’s mystery world, but mostly as excuse for having made them come in here in the first place, but maybe it was a bit because of tick of need, a feeling of being pulled to look.  Jess peered though the scrapes and scratches on the cabinet at an inlaid gold pendant, a pattern she had never see before, like nothing she usually wore, but she wanted, not just wanted, _wanted_ , it.

But that afternoon the store owner had walked quietly – incredibly quietly, Sam quietly – towards Sam, and Sam, thinking that Jess was busy with her shopping, had turned and smiled at him, and they had nearly greeted each other, Jess was so sure they knew each other, then she was sure she saw Sam catch sight of her and give the littlest shake of his head, and the storekeeper give a nod of acknowledgment. 

The store had advertised weird and that store had delivered. 

Changing course as though he had never been headed Sam’s way, the man had stepped over to help Jess; he was chatty in a folksy, disarming, sort of way – when he wasn’t having silent conversations with Sam.  For the record, Jess definitely called bullshit on him being a store keeper, or not knowing Sam. Jess still found herself, evening laying on the bed drunk, hoping he was Sam’s uncle or something and Sam would tell her all about him sometime. 

But, mystery uncle or not, whoever he was really was he knew jewelry, immediately picking the piece she had been examining, 9ct gold, inlaid with 18ct – unusual to say the least – and beaten nearly as thin as tin.  Jess asked, how could she not, she had manners, and she was genuinely curious, the meaning of the piece: the gold, as pure as could be afforded, and beaten thin to be more affordable was a banishing talisman to protect young women from evil, probably made for with a specific woman or specific purpose, who or what being lost in history.  The way the old man had looked both sad and pointed as he told the story was disconcerting, and Jess may have imagined he was warning her.  The way he said ‘ _from evil’_ he might as well have said _‘from the devil himself.’_ When he suggested, gruffly, but clearly, that it was the right piece for her, Jess found her mouth dry, and her heart thumping heavily, and found herself closing her hand around it.

Jess had hesitated, even as her hand wrapped around the gold, she was afraid of an idea that she wouldn’t believe in, because there was hurt in this world, but not evil, although Sam would beg to differ.  The ‘ _evil is real’_ discussion was something Jess would never ever revisit with Sam. Jess had wondered to herself how she would talk her parents into buying the pendant for her – not because it was expensive, her Mom would overlook that if Jess asked right, but because quite honestly her Mom would believe the explanation Jess had just been given, and Jess had no interest in the ‘ _evil isn’t real’_ discussion with her Mom ever again either.  No matter how many times the doctor had said ‘crib death’ Jess Mom had insisted that something evil had come for Jess’ brother, she’d felt it, and they’d given her pills until she couldn’t feel it anymore.  Jess couldn’t face a world with more imaginary evils. 

Sam had given the pendant to her as an early Christmas gift when they got home. 

Jess caught that necklace up in her fist as she and Sam lay side by side the room still spinning, and the burnt taste of hard liquor and lust at the back of her throat.

Her Sam had driven with her to LA for gallery openings, she had sat through unbearable lectures on law by unutterably boring visiting dignitaries, Sam had made it up to her by finding hot-dogs and brownies at midnight—more than one of her friends had asked if she were pregnant because of the hot dogs and brownies thing, she always said no, she never said it was impossible, it had been bad enough explaining it, or not explaining it, or not it, to her parents.

Her Sam had snuck into her apartment (best security in Palo Alto, my-fucking-ass, said Jess to herself, Sam as good as walked in) and made her pancakes for breakfast on her birthday.  Later Sam told her Dean made pancakes that for him—and she briefly hated Dean for stealing Sam’s thoughts, and stealing her birthday, and knowing Sam so well. Those and other jealous, sad, thoughts nipped at her heart as Sam fed her pancakes, not letting her help, cajoling her into keeping her hands stretched above her head, syrup and cream dripping off his fingers, as she lay in bed wanting to tug his clothes off as much with her mouth as her hands, lick syrup off his chest, suck marks onto his neck – mine, mine, mine – and nip the cream off his cock, teeth scraping and hard, lips caught in the sensation of his velvet and the satin of her mouth, and Sam’s cock hot against her tongue.  That hadn’t happened. Jess had ended up in the shower taking care of things.  Sam had taken one of those long runs when he needed to get away from his body – he swore it wasn’t her, but she couldn’t help feeling like it was sometimes – and broken in again just to show off. 

Jess lying on their bed, drunk, next to Sam, had wished and it still hadn’t happened.  She wondered if she could accept that it maybe never would.

Sam tried to be normal for her.  Sam had stopped putting down those weird salt lines when they had moved in together, he had been weird about it, but he had agreed. Sam still kept a duffel packed and ready to go, with fuck knows what in it, kept a baseball bat next to the bed just in case, apparently hunting furry little animals left you in fear for your life. Jess didn’t pry.  Sam had a right to his own fear she guessed. Sam made her feel safe, when he held her hand and towered above her (and not many guys towered above her) when he picked her up (and not many guys would even try that, but Sam knew he was strong, and he would show it off sometimes) and she felt protected wrapped in the muscular arms of her still slim young man with the bone that told how big he might be when he grew into himself.  Those rare times when in desperation Sam talked about it Sam said he hated what _‘they’_ did to him.  Jess wondered how much he wanted to change, really wanted to change, and she wasn’t quite ready to let go of Sam wrapping strong arms around her, and picking her up, and making her safe. 

Jess, still maybe mumbling, she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t be, was half ready to drift off, wondering if she could put a foot on the floor or something to make the room stop spinning, or if she should make herself throw up and be done with it when Sam blurted out, just said it, no preamble: “I can never give you what you want.”  He had stood up to go, presumably on a long, unsteady, run—but had ended up throwing up in the bathroom instead.

Jess lay in bed, wondering if she should go help Sam, or if he just wanted to be let alone, and wiping away her own tears and wishing she wanted something different. 

Jess heard the toilet flush, expected to hear the shower next, but Sam appeared in the doorway, looking sick, black smudges under his eyes, sweat still on his top lip, bangs wet from washing his face off, face grey.  Jess lay on her side, knees pulled up against her chest, hands tucked under her face, eyes wide and watching.  She had no idea of how to fix this.

“We can’t have children together Jess.  We just can’t.”

Jess opened her mouth, started asking if Sam couldn’t, you know, jerk off into a cup or something?  Like they did at sperm banks?  Sam answered before she had the question fully out.  For all she knew she had asked earlier tonight when she was rambling on.  She was so far gone tonight, what had she said to Sam?

“I don’t…”  Sam had said. 

“Jerk off?”  Jess hadn’t said that aloud, had she, she was getting better at this.  She hoped, she fucking hoped.

“…touch myself.”  Sam was leaning a shoulder against the door frame, head tilted slightly sideways, resting against the cream painted wood, using the frame for support, still watching her.  “I don’t touch myself at all if I can help it.”  Sam took a deep breath, which included a terrible pause; Jess felt the other shoe dropping and closed her eyes.  “Sometimes I’m not sure I want it there, that I don’t want to…I don’t like it doing what _they,_ my balls, testicles, testosterone, makes me… I don’t know if I like it, will like it, I don’t know if I want to like it.  I don’t want to be your…have sex with you because my body wants me to, I don’t know if I want to be touched when I’m like that.”  The pause isn’t significant, that’s what Jess thinks, Sam is drunk, he is probably just figuring out how to walk back to the bed. Sam coughs, throat still rough from throwing up. “I don’t want to…” Now Sam is looking down, embarrassed, and Jess feels guilty for asking him to have these conversations with professionals and groups of strangers.  But when he looks up at her he’s crying again, and Jess wonders how the hell she missed that, because Sam is scattering to pieces in front of her.  “I don’t want to ejaculate.”  Jess waits for him to continue his soliloquy, and tomorrow she will chase down his pieces and they will talk it all through.  “So I’m sorry,” Sam, usually quiet, lets the words float out: “Jess, I can’t father our children.”

What should have been obvious was sudden and devastating.

Jess, drunk, her fight finally brought out, having this thrown at her suddenly, and how long had Sam been going to therapy?  How long had she said: ‘You can tell me anything Sam.’ How long had Sam been keeping this half-secret?  How long had he known this was one fuck more complicated than just needing to be castrated? How long had Sam been lying to her?  Eventually, fucking eventually, she was done:  “Dammit Sam!  Why don’t you just cut the damn things off, cock and balls and be done, and we can get on with our lives?”  She is sitting up on their bed now, on her knees, jeans still open, hair everywhere, face red puffy from crying, “And you can be, will be, a father to our children, one hell of a lot more father than yours was to you.  We can get a sperm donor, or, or something, but no way, no fucking way, am I giving up on a children, our children, because you can’t get your act together.”  Jess stopped, suddenly sober enough to realize what she had said, and realize that she felt sick from guilt and frustration and fear, none of this really new.

Sam said quietly, but loud enough that Jess knew she was meant to hear:  “Dean, you and Dean could…”  Sam managed to stop himself, damage done.

Jess blinked and held her breath, finding a way to say nothing.

“He’s beautiful,” Sam added.

Jess shook her head and stared at Sam.  She wanted to tell him to get out, to get the fuck out and never come back because she was not going to fuck his _brother_ ; she had been waiting for years, _years_ , for Sam.

Sam, grabbing a blanket and pillow, went quietly to the living room, head held down like Jess had seen him when he felt he was loosing against this thing.

Jess let herself fall down flat on her back, staring at the stupid blank unhelpful ceiling, alone, evaluated her options, found, as usual, that her only real opinion was Sam.  Jess sunk her face into her hands in frustration, wondering if any part of Sam wanting to mutilate himself (please don’t use that word Jess, that’s not what it is) was something to do with his beautiful brother, and she momentarily hated Dean for being Sam’s first love.  Jess turned over and tried to let that nasty dank drunken sleep take her, because it was better than being awake, and she kept on crying again, and dammit she wasn’t going to be so fucking helpless because Sam didn’t know what the fuck he needed.

Jess needed to pee, and she needed to throw up, and she needed to talk Sam into her bed, she needed to do them in that order, and she wasn’t sure she could make it to the bathroom without falling over, and she thought of calling out to Sam, he was a light sleeper, to the point that she wondered if he ever really was truly asleep, but she knew the rhythms of his breath, and he wasn’t sleeping.  The more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that she would make it to the bathroom, and the less it seemed that she could hear Sam sleeping.  Jess’ eyebrows pulled involuntarily together, she could hear the gas of the stove, and for a moment she thought that Sam might be dumb enough to stick his head in the oven…on second thoughts the oven wouldn’t be lit, and that was definitely a lit burner, and what the hell was Sam trying to do, burn the apartment down?

She clutched her way over to the door, she still needed to pee, she thought she might still upchuck, and this was going to taste much worse coming up and probably it hadn’t tasted all that good going down—she couldn’t quite remember.  Sam was quiet, so quiet, she always thought how quiet he was wasn’t fair to the deer, he could just sneak up on them, maybe it wasn’t deer he had hunted, he had never really talked about it, he was so quiet even with tears still running down his face, a burner on, and a knife, a brutal looking knife with a double edge and a blade that curved, a white handle, ‘scrimshaw’ her mind helpfully supplied, well over a hundred years old her traditional American crafts class added – why dear god, did she remember all this stuff – Jess had never seen that knife before, she had never seen anything like it before, cutting edge glowing red on the burner.  Jess was sure she would remember seeing something that vicious. 

“Sam?”  Sam was still crying, but his hands were steady as he turned the blade over on the flame.  “What the hell?”  Jess whispered, steady, quiet when she wanted to shout, because it wended its way through her drunk mind that Sam was doing what she had suggested, cutting it all off in their kitchen.  “Don’t.”  She didn’t raise her voice, she walked towards him, she needed to get to that burner and turn it off, she needed to get between him and the knife and she needed to call someone for help, she was more inclined to her Mom than paramedics, but she wasn’t sure yet.

Jess had never seen Sam fully naked before, and he was breathtaking, and as she edged around the kitchen reaching a hand out to Sam, coaxing him to take it, to come to bed, this would all be better in the morning, they could make plans, real plans, and it would be ok, they could even call Dean just so Sam could talk to him, so Sam didn’t feel so alone and desperate, and Jess hated it that she wasn’t enough for Sam, but she would be damned if her ego would stop her from saving him from his body.  As she edged around the counter it occurred to her that that body had been made for her, sculpted as a gift for her, and when it was done, when Sam cut himself – the finishing touch – he would give that exquisite body to her.   Sam didn’t want his body like this, this body was for her.

Nearly ready for her, Sam was busy with the finishing touches, the piece that was for him.  Jess could smell the salty odor of iodine and see the brown-orange hue to Sam’s shaved genitals, he must have spent the last half hour, hour, Jess didn’t know, he must have spent that time preparing, the gauze on the kitchen counter, a couple of her metal bowls out, a couple of towels, Sam’s duffel, the one that he kept hidden, nearly hidden, set out on the counter open.

“Don’t.”  Jess’ voice was some where between a whisper and a snarl, because if Sam wanted to betray her, to walk out on her, he could at least just leave and not do this to himself in the kitchen.  Jess wasn’t sure she wouldn’t pee down her leg, and knew she couldn’t walk straight.

Sam bit his lower lip, took his balls in one hand, twisted them, pulled then low in their sac and crushed them with his fist.  “I just want them gone Jess, it’s them or me, and I’m not ready to die.  Just let me, don’t call anyone, they’ll lock me up.” Of all the irrelevant things to say Sam adds: “I’ll never get a scholarship, things like this, people find out.”  Sam dug his fingers into his balls, tugging them lower, pain crossing his face, twisting them around.  “The blade is sharp enough, the heat will cauterize them, I should be fine, I have everything I need.”  Sam adds, sounding as though he thinks he is being reasonable:  “If it kills me Jess, it kills me.”  Jess detects the slightest slur to his voice, a little drag to his words – fuck, he’s still drunk – why she imagined Sam castrating himself in their kitchen sober would have been any better is something Jess doesn’t ask until later, when she reads his journal. Sam is drunk, mothered, plastered, all fucked up – Jess doesn’t know if she is nauseated from the alcohol or from fear, if it was this easy or this safe Sam would have done this ages go.  Jess is hedging her way towards him, trying not to cry or wet herself.

In what sounds like an afterthought, as though after all these months of being considerate suddenly Jess doesn’t matter, Sam adds:  “I love you.” 

“Don’t you fucking dare Sam!  Don’t you, not in our kitchen!”  Jess didn’t think she could reach the knife without rushing Sam, and he was always quick, too quick for her, and she was drunk, and he was drunk and it was all going horribly, horribly wrong.  Sam was not going to hurt himself if she had anything to do with it, not in their kitchen, not tonight when he was drunk. 

Jess knew she couldn’t do this, knew she needed help, didn’t know who the hell she was going to call, but she knew she couldn’t do this alone, not with Sam _like this_ – whatever the hell _like this_ meant – but she knew she was closer to the phone than Sam was, and that was her best hope.  Except when Sam saw her start to move, and Sam did know her well,  he reached out – Jess often forgot how easily he put those long limbs where he needed them, he always appeared gangly lost in a tangle of arms and legs when he was in fact like a cheetah, or maybe a cobra – and with a smooth movement tore the phone from the wall, throwing it down and smashing it to plastic shards;  Sam was comfortable doing that, uncomfortably comfortable doing that and for not entirely the first time Jess was a little afraid of him. But her cell phone was still in her bag, her bag she thought, hoped –how she meant to remember what she did when they got in, she had been drunk and Sam had been kissing her, holding her face in those hands, all warmth and strength – was near the door, and maybe she could back up to get it, she could call her Mom…who would, what?  Know what to do?  Ask her Dad if they could drive over quick and get this all resolved?  Call nine-one-one?  They couldn’t call nine-one-one.  Jess briefly reached out a helpless hand hoping maybe Sam would just come to her, and they can fix it, and it will all be over.  She really doesn’t know in retrospect why she bothered to think that, she doesn’t have that kind of luck.

“Don’t touch me Jess, just, please, I don’t want you to touch _this.”_ He’s pleading, but he’s too dangerous to be vulnerable, although Jess’ heart tells her different. “I can’t Jess…they’re not part of me, I should never have had them.  They don’t. They have control over me, they should never have been there, if I hurt them Jess at least I know for myself that I will do sometime thing about getting them gone. I deserve it for not taking care of it…I don’t have the balls to cut my balls off.”  That should have been funny in a sick way, but it was only bitter, Sam’s face was bitter—all that anger that lurked in him, that came out when he thought she needed protecting, that anger was turned on his body. 

Jess wasn’t just afraid of him, she was afraid for him, and she couldn’t get to the phone, She stood still for moment, trying to be sensible, she was sensible, usually, but this wasn’t the kind of thing that usually happened.  Sam blinked at her, restored composure to his face by an act of will—Jess wondered how many times Sam had mislead her, put an expression on his face that didn’t really belong there.  Sam went on, despite Jess wishing he would stop this stupidity in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, when they were both drunk. “My, my… penis,”  his face twists, “I don’t know Jess, I just don’t, I can’t touch it. I don’t want to hurt myself Jess, really, I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t go on.”  Jess notices how Sam struggles to even say ‘penis’, and wonders who she missed this before, what other words have been lost and  she hasn’t noticed.  “It’s them or me Jess, it gives me a fighting chance.  I’m not a woman Jess, I’m not an eunuch,” Sam pauses again, slightly too long, and Jess notices, wonders what it really means, but that’s only going to be a problem if Sam is alive tomorrow, “but I’m not a man Jess, not what other people mean by that…men have balls, men father children, men are good and brave and strong enough to keep their families safe.  I’m none of those things Jess.”  Sam’s words jumbled together, and Jess didn’t know what was alcohol and what was fear because he must be scared of how much this was going to hurt, and how he might die, and she didn’t know how much of it was finally telling the truth…which he could have thought to tell her ages ago. 

That knife, Sam is turning to the burner, turning his back on her, not stable enough to reach backwards while keeping his eyes completely on her, and Jess sees her chance.  Later Jess will wonder how she though she could over-power him, she can’t, she doesn’t stand a hope, but throws herself at him, pushing a shoulder into his chest, grabbing for the horrible knife on the lit burner; Sam snatches it from her fingers before her hand can close on the engraved handle;  as drunk as he is his movements are sure this time, as he pulls the blade away from her, his fingers meeting the sharp hot edge, the brief smell of burning flesh, he doesn’t flinch – he should flinch, thinks Jess, what the hell is wrong with him – but it does startle him, the whole thing startles him, and no matter how much he can put away – Jess doesn’t think she has ever seen him well and truly plastered before – tonight he is off balance, so many ways, off balance, Sam stumbles for a moment, Jess grabs for the blade before Sam can set it out of reach.  Sam, aware of her, sensing her movement before it happens, Sam drops the knife, in the same motion grabbing both her hands in one of his.  That damn cat, that cat of hers is hissing at her now, his ears pinned, and she doesn’t want him to start clawing. Now his face is twisted in an expression Jess has never seen on Sam before, all the anger that he hid – how had she thought that anger was at his father, not at his body – all that written on his face: “Don’t touch it Jess, you could get hurt.”  It’s not a friendly caution, there is a threat in there;  Jess doesn’t know if the threat is towards her, or towards him, and she’s struggling her feet slipping under her as she tries to get close enough to get a good kick into his groin, something that will give her a moment to what, to what? Grab the knife again?  Run? She is afraid, good and proper—what had Brady said in that message?  Maybe Brady was right. 

“Let me go Jess.”  Sam says as though he weren’t the one holding her.  “I have to do this Jess, and I don’t really know what this is Jess….We can talk Jess, but not now, now I have to go.”  He’s drunk, Jess reminds herself, he’s drunk and he’s confused, and we went too far, and he’s frightened. 

Jess is still struggling when Sam reaches into his bag, the duffel – secrets from his old life, a boundary that Jess has always respected – and he pulls out a gun.  Jess isn’t even surprised; she isn’t worried anymore, if Sam shoots her, he shoots her _‘Murder-suicide at college apartments.’_ Jess continues the story in her head: ‘ _We knew he was unstable’ say shooter’s friends. Jessica Moore was described the life of a party,deeply in love with Sam, and planned to marry him in the summer.  She was graduating in the spring and hoped to work in a local art gallery, the couple’s friends say.  Sam Winchester had to outside appearance been a model student and citizen, was studying pre-law and was set to graduate at the top of his class, but his former roommate…_ ’  Sam was going to shoot her, god, Sam was going to shoot someone, Sam had a gun.  “I need you not to touch me Jess, I need you to not stop me, I can’t change this Jess,” Sam pauses, “I need to finish it.”  Sam takes a big breath, his hands are steady, steady is good, steady so his shot will be good, thinks Jess, steady so I won’t suffer.  “I need you to not stop me, I need you to not call 911, I need you to let me save myself.” Sam pauses, licks his lips: “Please?”

He’s not going to hurt her.  He’s not going to shoot her.  “Sam?”

“Give me this Jess, I need to go, to not be touched, to be able to,” Sam pauses, winded from the emotion, “to think this through Jess.”

Not with a fucking gun he’s not.  And he does _not_ get to just wave a gun around and walk out on over a year, nearly two years, of them.

“You don’t Sam!  You promised me things, you promised me normal, and you promised me a family.”  Jess is struggling, trying to get closer to him, trying to get her head down to bite at him, even knowing the strength of him, she fights. “You promised me us!”

“I promised you a man Jess! And I can’t promise you that’s what I am!” 

When Sam raises his voice Jess thinks he might be frightened. When Sam raises his voice he is incredibly frightening.  When Sam raises his voice, and Jess, at this point thinks she is as frightened as she is ever going to be, Sam is impressively frightening.  She’s wrong, by the way, but she doesn’t know that yet.

He is still holding her hands, backing her to where he wants her to be, “Sit.” says Sam, as though he has some right to tell her what to do.

“What you are is an ass, and an idiot, and a selfish fucking bastard, and when you told me _the truth_ on our first,” Jess is sobbing, Sam seems unmoved, not even letting her get a hand free to wipe the tears and snot from her face.  Jess continues struggling, speaking her mind anyhow because that’s what Jess does and fuck Sam if he wants to hurt her, she’s going to remind him what they were, what they could have been, what he fucking promised her:  “On our first date, I knew you were _the_ _man_ I was going to marry, your balls don’t matter to me, they were never going to be part of the deal.”  Jess firms up her jaw, gets the tears under control, her whole life might be falling apart, and her boyfriend is apparently a serial killer. Her belt is still hanging loose, her jeans still half undone, shirt half buttoned, cami, daisy pattern trim, pink, pulled skew: “You promised, a home, and a dog, and a horse, and a family.” Jess takes a breath, this is it:  “If you can’t be what you promised me you had better go Sam.”  Sam nods. 

If he goes, Jess thinks, he can’t shoot me. If he doesn’t shoot me, I can save him – if he isn’t too much of a self-involved dick-head to want finding – I can find him.  Precious Dean can fucking find him.  Where the hell is _perfect_ Dean when she needs him?  When Sam needs him?  If Sam goes, he can’t hurt me, Jess reiterates to herself trying to stop gasping for breath, stop the jerky occasional sobs threatening to come out.  She wouldn’t be struggling to breathe as much if Sam had actually twisted his hands around her throat.

Sam’s mouth curls around into what might have been intended as an apology if he had said anything, forehead all twisted together, head with that tilt that means, ‘ _I’m guilty_.’ in Sam speak.

“Call your Mom once I’m _gone_ Jess.”  Sam lets her hands loose. 

Jess still doesn’t dare move, only lets her eyes wander over to her bag on the side table not far from her. 

Sam stands and watches her a moment as though he is trying to figure out who she is, or who he is, something important. 

Sam watches Jess figuring out if he can trust her or if she will call the cops.  They both know Jess is running out of choices.  Sam backs up into the kitchen, always looking over at Jess, pulls on his jeans one handed, never taking his eyes off her, slipping his gun into the back of his jeans, never seeming to be looking for the knife, but she knows him better than that now.  Sam’s eyes briefly turn away, reaching for his duffel or finding the knife, Jess doesn’t care; she grabs for her bag—if she has that she can get her phone: get her phone and call the nine-one-one before Sam is out the door and gone.  One stride and Sam is on her, pulling her bag one handed from her, his own bag slung over that shoulder, his other hand holding the blade.  He is still unsteady, still a little drunk, not clear headed, Jess can smell the alcohol and puke and toothpaste on his breath, she tries to jump up, run, get away, away, away, but she looses her balance, reaching for something to hold herself up her hand finds Sam’s duffel, grabs helpless at it, and rips it off his shoulder, slinging it across the room, scattering debris of Sam’s past.  Sam staggers, Jess’ sudden tug jerking him sideways, knocking the coffee table over as he scrambles not to go down.  Catching himself, pulling both feet under himself, crouching, feral, Sam glances over at the strewn contents of his duffel.  Sam watches Jess, as she scrambles to get away, get back from him, make it to the bedroom door, lock the door.  Why would locking the door help, Jess asks herself, this is fucking Sam.  Sam looks her over, and Jess thinks the look on his face is concerned, kind, the Sam she thought she knew.  “You ok?” he asks.  Why the hell would she be ok? Jess staggers back, feels her ankle twist and her back wrench and finds herself sitting frozen on the floor and Sam steps forward, maybe to help her, but Jess doesn’t know, just doesn’t know.  “I’m sorry Jess.”  Sam whispers.  He picks Jess’ bag up, extracts her cell phone, walks still half dressed to the door, looking over his shoulder, watching Jess as sits in motionless shock –  fear finally the only thing running in her blood – he opens the door, throws her phone down hard on the hallway floor, smashing it where she can see what he’s doing, picking up the battery from the cracked plastic mess, cutting her off from her Mom, and he walks out the front door, gun tucked into the back of his jeans, knife carried in is right hand.

Jess, not even bothering to catch her breath to shout at him, rips her pendant off, throws it with all her strength down the hallway after Sam.  Without fucking selfish stupid Sam that necklace means nothing to her. 

Jess wonders how Sam thinks she’s going to call her Mom.

She organizes herself, aside from her twisted ankle and the knot forming in her back nothing is hurt, nothing else hurts, Sam wouldn’t hurt her.  Jess vaguely recalls that one is meant to sober up from shock and is disappointed, but not surprised, that isn’t happening.  She struggles to the couch, half on her knees, reaches for her purse where Sam had tossed it down, then re-remembers her phone is gone. She just watched him destroy it, and one hell of a lot of other stuff.  Fucking selfish stupid Sam destroyed her phone, her only way to contact her Mom, destroyed it on his way out. Out to either kill himself or save himself. Jess doesn’t have the first clue which, and Jess doesn’t have the first clue of what to do next.  She stands up, takes a deep breath, puts both feet flat on the floor, softens her focus, she pushes her hands up into her hair – tugging it back as though she going to tie it up and then letting it fall.  She mutters to herself, ‘what the fuck.’  Jess totters to the bathroom to throw up.

By the time Jess has finished in the bathroom, changed her wet panties and jeans, wiped her face down, and drunk a glass of water (makes her feel sick all over again), taken a handful of aspirin, (which she would rather were valium but she’s out, and you don’t get everything you want in life) and composed her self sufficiently to think, Sam has disappeared off into the night—her own damn black cat.

Jess could never follow his easy movement in the dark, he would guide her into those stained crescent moon nights to look at the sky, the world so shadowed it was only the two of them; Sam would run at night bleeding into darkness that sometimes left her chilled and alone, and sometimes left her wanting more, sometimes left her wanting to chase the mysterious part of Sam that would only ever belong to Dean, tonight that hunt was on.

Jess rubs her hands together, sloughing off the first of the autumn chill in the too early to be called morning hours after midnight, and gathers the scattered contents of Sam’s duffel.  There’s more there than she thought, more of another Sam she doesn’t know; Latin books, a grimore (real thing, she’s never touched one before and it sends cold shivers down her spine), knives, another gun, ammunition (what the hell, silver bullets?  Are they real?  Is this whole night real?) salt (what’s with the salt again?) she finds what she thinks is a throwing star, an engraved throwing star (definitely to kill deer, sure, right Sam) a flask of what might be water, and one that is definitely whiskey (and not the cheap stuff), various IDs (Fbi?  CDC?  Ithaca Police Department?) with various names (Robert Plant? Curt Cobain? Really? Cobain?)  a King James Bible, a Latin bible, conversion charts between various calendars, a rosary, a crucifix, (religious obsession is a sign of mental illness, but he’s been in therapy forever), a first aid kit equipped for a disaster, (which is good because they are having a disaster) pills and pills and pills, some little bags of nasty herbs (dear lord, how insane is he, should she call her Mom, on the phone she doesn’t have, thanks Sam) a couple of nasty looking needles which she thinks are for stitching, and dental floss (for stitching? Is that even a real thing?) – that beautiful body she saw tonight was scarred, some old white lines, some shades of pink that she had taken to be self inflicted. Now she wonders how Sam was getting so hurt, if it was all him, if he was stitching – repairing – himself, if Dean was, if his Dad was hurting him (he hates the man, Jess hates the man), if Dean was hurting him (he would let Dean do anything to him), socks, underwear, a picture of his family.  These are not the belongings of a man who hunts deer.  And a phone charger. 

Jess grabs for Sam’s duffle, digs in the bag itself, the phone that goes with that charger has to be here somewhere.  Tucked into a zippered compartment are a journal, and a phone.  She tears into the journal, anything for a clue, fuck Sam’s privacy, he is fucking up her whole life, runs her eyes over the pages, no address, no phone numbers, no hints of where Sam goes when he disappears into the night.  She skips though the contents of the pages:  co-ordinates (she thinks that’s what they are, she was a girl scout after all), monsters, his Dad, dark horrible pictures, Dean, Stanford, Dean, them, therapy (read all that later, there is a difference between privacy and lies, and Jess thinks that Sam long ago crossed the line into lies) – turns on the phone.  Its battery has been kept charged; one number programmed in, no name, no real need for name, that’s Dean.

Jess hits send, and waits, waits while the phone rings, waits while she realizes that Sam’s family could be (probably are) psycho killers, waits will she realizes that anywhere in the United States this is not a respectable time for a phone call, contemplates that since Sam comes from a family of serial killers and there’s probably not a respectable time to call serial killers, it probably doesn’t matter, maybe you should call mid-morning after they disposed of the body? Bodies?  Or early evening, before they head out on a murderous spree?  She would hate, she mutters to herself, to interrupt their work—and shakes her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her left ear, and leaving it falling forward again on the right.

The voice that answers isn’t Dean, she knows it’s not, Dean wouldn’t tell Sam ‘Sam’ not to call, wouldn’t tell him to never call this number again, wouldn’t tell him that ‘never come back means just that.’

“Just…” Jess gets in, doesn’t get to ‘Just let me talk to Dean.’ The line goes quiet.  Damn, fuck and damn.  “Please.” Jess says.  Jess erases the call history.

Jess’ fingers reach up to play with the pendant that isn’t there anymore.  She puts her shoes on, grabs her keys, her wallet, a pack of ciggies from the hidden compartment in her purse, a pack of tissues, mascara, lip gloss, a hoodie for Sam, grabs the journal and heads out into the chilly night.  She picks up the amulet in the hallway and slips it into her jeans pocket, muttering ‘bastard’, to herself, and meaning it. She drives the routes she had walked weeks before, she stops outside friends  houses looking for lights turned on, she pauses before she gets out the car and walks over campus in the dark, stealthy, quiet as he can be if he is here she will know it in her bones—but he’s not.  She cruises coffee shops.  She stops into an all night store and picks up a phone.  She thinks of driving to the trinket store, Sam knew that man, she knows he did;  the man’s name tag said ‘Bobby’ why does she remember irrelevant things so easily?  And ‘Bobby’ probably doesn’t live there anyhow, he lives in Sioux Falls, his cap said so. She’s made up and entire story for this guy, how he raised Sam and his brother, how he was ok with Sam going to college, how Sam would be able to tell him the truth and someone in the family would accept Sam. She wonders how far Sam could have got on foot.  She checks by the apartment, leaves Sam a note, says to call her, here is her temporary number, it says to let her know if he is ok, what she can do to help, the note says that she didn’t call 911, it doesn’t say ‘I love you.’ And it doesn’t say ‘please come home’. Jess leaves the phone, the one with Dean’s number where Sam can easily see it, but not until she’s copied that phone’s number and Dean’s number to her new phone.  She doesn’t expect Sam to call her, but he may come by for the contents of that bag, she thinks he really needs them.  She thinks he needs Dean’s number. She tries calling emergency rooms, but she can’t get much help over the phone, she’s not family (she lies about that after the first call) she can’t give his name without adding to the fuck up (and what is his name anyhow? Kurt Cobain?  Morrissey?  Boy George?) she can’t tell them he’s going to castrate himself or they will send the police for him and lock him up in a dark psych ward never to be heard from again.  The cops will probably shoot him. They shoot madmen don’t they?

Jess doesn’t want to call it giving up.  She really doesn’t, but Starbucks is open all night, and she just needs to call her Mom, and she can’t stay home, its too frightening to see Sam’s anger on display, and she is really going to be the strange crying girl in Starbucks and people will wonder what the hell her problem is—they have not a fucking ponies patootie’s worth of an idea what her problem is.  She has no fucking idea what her problem is and why she doesn’t just call her Mom, go home for a few days, find a new apartment, with new locks, and extra security, and large dogs, and hopefully some way to actually stop Sam, text Sam to never call her again, get an another, another number, and get on with her life.  She orders something big and sweet with lots of caffeine. 

“Mom?”  Jess isn’t keeping it together.  “I’m fine,” “No,” “It’s not me.”  It’s two in the morning, quarter of three, what difference does it make, of course her Mom will think it’s her:  “I’m not hurt Mama, I’m fine.”  It can’t sound convincing through the tears, and she was not ever going to cry in front of her Mom again.  Jess is getting used to putting both her feet flat on the floor to calm her nerves; she unconsciously drags her fingers through her hair catching in places against the rubs on her fingers from sculpture class. “It’s Sam, Mama.”  Now she starts sobbing, gasping between sentences:  “I’m so scared for him Mama…” 

Jess’ pause between sentences is long enough for her Mom to softly be saying “Baby?  Jessie?”

“I said some things…I broke up with him.” 

Jess isn’t clear what her Mom says, all she knows is that she’s talking to her Dad next and telling him not to come down, that she can handle it, that she’s just upset, she’ll call again in the morning.  He asks about the strange number, she just lies, and says she lost her phone, and didn’t have time to find it, before she ran out the apartment, and then she has to explain that she’s calling from a Starbucks.  Her Dad asks if Sam hurt her, asks if she’s afraid of Sam, asks if she has a safe place to go, and Jess mumbles the good, safe answers that don’t mean a thing—and her Dad knows it. 

“I want to talk to Mom.”  It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk to her Dad, this is just one of those things that only a mother can solve.  “I’m so scared for him Mama, I know he’s going to hurt himself.” “Badly Mama.”  She listens for a moment, “No,” she tells her Mom, “No you don’t need to come down tonight…I just…I don’t know what I need.”  She just needs Sam to be alright. 

                                                        

“Mama, just pray for Sam?  Ok?  Please, pray for us.”  She pulls herself together again, “It’s ok Mama, just a place where a prayer would be the best solution.” She puts a hand over her mouth to mask her sobs. ‘ _Or the only solution’_ Jess mutters to herself, as often as she sees Sam pray she knows damn well its not going to help, he’s tried;  and damned if she is going to beg anyone, including a god who makes so many fuck-ups, for help. She’s wrong again, but it’s for the better that she not know until it’s too late. Jess tells her parents how much she loves them, promises that she will be safe, and ends the call.

Jess slaps the journal down on the table.  She goes to Stanford dammit, she knows Sam backwards and forwards (‘Correction Jess,’ she mutters to herself, ‘Thought you knew Sam backwards and forwards.’) but she does know how he thinks, she does know that he lies, lies, lies, but she thinks this book is to be trusted; she isn’t stupid and she refuses to panic, and she will read this thing cover to cover before the sun is up if that’s what she needs to do—but she knows all she needs to do is look for Dean’s name. 

Jess starts back to front, most recent entry backwards, skims and flips, skims and flips, skims and flips—then ‘Found it’.  “Fucking thank you Jesus!”  Jess had thought she was muttering to herself but the other coffee-drinkers are looking; she must look like a bag lady with a book, a book lady, but they can go fuck themselves—that’s all she’s had for years;  and she may look like a fucked up bag lady with a book, but she looks like a very very hot fucked up bag lady with a book.

Two and half years ago, (timeline matches with what Sam told her, told the truth that time) Sam and Dean had broken up.  Those are literally the words Sam chose: ‘ _Broken up’._  

_I don’t think I will see Dean again._

_I will never see Dean again._

_He said it, he’s said it before, that he wanted me to come back on the road with him, or we were done, but this time I said that if he wouldn’t stay here with me we were really done.  He said if I wouldn’t go with him tonight he wouldn’t come back for me, my choice. I said I was ok with that. He said I could keep the Impala, which makes no sense, but he said it, and I said no—and I told him I didn’t need a ride home, which was stupid because we were at the overlook, and I will never see him again. Done, gone, finished, over, forever.  Dean thinks I got what I wanted.  This wasn’t what I wanted._

_…the best evening together since I turned 18, he knew it was our last night together, I know he did, he could have mentioned that when he came and picked me up_ – _waiting for me outside Logic class, with flowers, which means he had been watching me to know which classes I do when, flashing his smile at my friends, pretending to be my long lost lover while I try to explain that he’s my brother.  It shouldn’t be comforting to be watched – Dean, the benevolent stalker won’t be watching anymore._

Sam had added in a pencil note, probably later: ‘ _I feel cold when I remember he isn’t watching, like a ghost is. Dean is as much my ghost as Mom_.’  Jess for a moment feels as though she intruded.

_We didn’t fight—we usually fight as soon as he gets here (see previous entries).  You would think he and I could lie on a bed together without fighting, we’ve done it our whole lives. Shared beds and fought we may as well have been married. Maybe we didn’t fight because we didn’t go to a motel and sit on his bed together and eat burgers and drink and watch horror movies, and wrestle for the remote because those movies suck and Dean always wants to watch porn and I can’t—we didn’t do any of that because Dean knew how the evening ended._

_…every time it comes down to this, I have one secret I need to keep from him, and that ends up being everything.  He has one thing he has to do, and that ends up being what finishes us.  Final break up, no take backs, no make ups, done forever, never coming back again, done, gone._

_…I know Dean like the back of my hand, like the sky we watched together tonight, California in the summer. And North Star, stars to navigate by, Dad always said it, Dean taught me the stars long before Dad said it._

_…We went out, really out, Dean wore his fake FBI suit, and a good silk tie which I suspect he bought – or lifted, this is Dean – for the occasion, like he might consider joining me in a real life, outside of hunting, I’d asked him too often I guess, to get out while he is still alive, nearly ok, not too damaged.  I told him I’d drop out of school to support us if that’s what he needs.  I mean it, I will always mean it, if he comes back I will still mean it._

Jess knew, and wished that she didn’t, that even as she was reading it Sam will still meant it.

_But he’s not coming back this time.  Final, over, no take backs, done, forever. He always says no to staying with me, “saving people, hunting things…I need to look after Dad, don’t you remember about Mom?”, he never says ‘Yes’, because that would mean saving himself and Dean just won’t do that.  I told him I wouldn’t ask him to stay again, that he was always welcome, but that I wouldn’t ask him to come, he had to do that himself.  And he said: “Fuck you.” So I said ok.  All I can do now is pray._

Jess considers the things that Sam prays for:  his mother in heaven, Dean in the world, and his body.  Jess wonders if she makes the list.  Later on she thinks she might have, and god just hates Sam.

_We didn’t argue over dinner, we didn’t talk, but that’s ok, it felt ok, we’ve spent miles not talking to each other, good and bad, and tonight it felt good—like some things could be set aside.  He walked across campus with me, asking things, as though he really wanted to know about my life, I know him, I should have known he was stretching the evening out, he just wanted a little more time with me, but I didn’t see it coming, I just saw what he wanted me to see.  We played pool, hustled some college kids, Dean wanted to—and who am I to stop him?  Really, who am I to stop him?  We bought a bottle of Chevas Regal on scammed credit cards—it felt good, like we could work something out, be together again._

_He took us for a drive in the Impala, though the city, telling me hunting stories, some of which I’m sure were true, laughing at his own jokes, pretending that mine weren’t funny, making my hair into shapes with Jell he shoved onto my head—who keeps ‘hair product’ in their glove box? I would give him shit about that forever.  Except there is no forever.  I don’t know if I’m willing to accept that.  I agreed to it, but I just wanted him to stay one more night, I wanted that as part of the deal, give me one more night to convince him, one more night to be brave enough to tell him the truth, one more night to let him know how truly fucked up I am before he left me behind._

_Dean drove us through the city, we drove out on the highway along the coast, me bitching about his music, him bitching about my face.  He could have said something.  Then we went and sat on the hood of the Impala, and watched the stars, and I told him I wanted him to stay, and he told me he wanted me to go with him—that was it.  Over._

Jess closes Sam’s journal, she orders two triple espresso mocha lattes, large, please, and a scone, no two, Sam would be hungry after his melt down, Sam’s enormous, three, and use this card.  It came out of Sam’s stuff, she may as well have coffee at the visa credit card company’s expense.  Is there anything Sam won’t do?  Except her?  Jess picks the coffee and the scones up, juggling them along with her purse and the journal.  Where the hell does she go to?  Through the city?  Sam isn’t going to be wandering the streets half naked and armed, he may be fucked-up and most way suicidal, but he’s not stupid—not _that_ stupid.  He could have broken in just about anywhere and acquired a new wardrobe.  Jess wonders why they didn’t do that instead of shopping, Sam was probably an accomplished thief, he was thorough about everything else, precise, persnickety, couldn’t see him leaving evidence behind, except a trashed living room, the only traces of his past, his journal, and the only link he has to his brother.  Jess’ gut says that Sam kept moving anyhow, don’t go home, go forward, he had left everything he knew before and this didn’t go according to Sam’s plan, Sam’s running scared, but Sam has to say goodbye to Dean.  He either goes home for the phone, or he goes to the last place he saw Dean.

Jess leans her forehead against the roof of her car for a moment – breathing steadily, making sure there will be no more tears.  She opens the door, arranges things neatly, just because her life is a mess, and she doesn’t need to make her car a mess also.  She picks some fine strands of her hair out from between her fingers and watches them fall in the parking lot.

Finding Sam, she’s not even sure she wants to find Sam, if Dean didn’t come back for Sam, why does she need to?  Sam isn’t good at moving on, he’s good a running away, he did that from his previous life, but he’s not good at moving on she knows that from how he talks about Dean, how he kept a bag of his past, Sam needs to think and to do that he needs to be alone.  He would usually run, but he wouldn’t be running half dressed, he was embarrassed about his near prefect body—dammit, what a time to break up with him.  Jess balances a mug of coffee between her thighs, tugs her hair back into a loose knot and then starts her engine.  Sam would go to the last place he saw Dean, and she would beat him there easily—he should have thought to take the car, he broke her heart, stealing her car would be nothing.  She wipes a stray angry tear away and peals out of the parking lot, taking some satisfaction in the squeal of rubber—Sam has some explaining to do, and she will find him, and have him tell her what is up with him; even if she did break up with him.

Jess wonders to herself if this was the kind of fight Sam and Dean had, vicious and to the point, and with absolutely no resolution.  She thinks if she read further in the journal she would find out that Sam and Dean had physical fights, hurting each other literally—she wonders if she and Sam would have gone to that place, if he would have hurt her, although breaking her heart and destroying her future hurt badly enough.  Jess drove on, she had a full tank of gas, she didn’t think Sam would be walking beside the road – for all she knew might be playing in the traffic – he might, so she watched for him.

Sam wasn’t even angry tonight, that’s what Jess told herself, at least not at her: he was hurting and afraid, and angry at himself, and acting like a spoiled toddler – sometimes he was so damn selfish that Jess found it hard to believe he had been raised by his brother – not the only child of an indulgent mother (nothing against only children, Jess knew she didn’t act like that, but she was only sort of an only child, she’d been raised with an invisible brother, like Sam had with an invisible Mom, they got each other on that level.) Jess wondered how violent Sam and Dean were with each other, if that is what Sam thinks love is, and she questioned if he would be physical with her, and if she should even find him.  Felt annoyed, and she should be fucked-up furious about this, but annoyed that Sam was more likely to hit her than to make love to her. Love makes you do stupid things, she muttered to herself, as she kept course up the hill, looking for Sam, regretting that she loved him, and feeling that there was no way out. 

Jess’ mind in the dark wandered to a journal entry, she was avoiding doing that, avoiding knowing things about Sam that he hadn’t shared with her—but now how much was there of that, of him, that he hadn’t come clean about.  But she remembered that night in the journal, because that night she was fairly sure, for the first time since she had known him, that Sam was capable of violence.  Jess wanted Sam to be the guy who didn’t kill spiders, but this new aspect of him had to be thought through.  Sam, for the record, didn’t kill spiders, she thought he was just soft that way, but it was probably superstition, he said something about drought, although he did enjoying playing with them, gently, her gentle Sam, before setting them down outdoors. That night however, she knew there was a different side to him.  She and Sam were heading to their one year anniversary, a few drinks, a little pool, burgers and go to bed far enough apart that Sam didn’t get all freaked out about it. 

Sam had said to his journal, not to her: ‘ _I nearly lost my temper’_ and ‘ _I think they may have recognized me_.’  and ‘ _I don’t want to leave here_ ,’ and ‘ _I can’t tell Jess about what I really do,_ ’ And ‘ _If anyone ever lays a hand on Jess I will kill them_.’  He sounded so sure.

Until that night Jess had thought Sam was an adorable pool player. That was until she, well she and Brady, and some friends, (but fuck Brady), nearly got hustled. It wasn’t about hustled, Jess knew that, it was about guys standing too close behind her, it was about guys checking out her ass, it was about guys looking down her cleavage, but whatever, guys looked, if they kept their hands to themselves Jess was good.  For that matter Jess was good at pool, and proving it, with a little ‘help’ from Brady, and she was open to cash bets…because she was winning.  And she was pissed off with Sam because he kept on bitching about needing to go, he might no be into partying but it was a few beers and a burger and a game of pool, and she was winning.  Sam stayed in the shadows, and watched – Jess knew he was watching, it was extra creepy because you could never feel Sam’s eyes on you, he was suddenly just there.  Jess was winning, and the hustlers were about to go in for the close, and she would probably have lost a couple of hundred, her pride, and got her ass grabbed, but Jess had thought she was good to go. Then one of the guys had smiled at her in a way she didn’t like, and Jess had automatically looked to Sam for help, and as Sam had stepped from the shadows the smirking asshole’s face fell. Sam had silently stepped in front of her, taking her cue in passing, and chalked it. There was a look to him, he had pulled himself up to his full 6’4” and spread his shoulders, he was easy in his body, wolf not boy. 

Jess wanted, she still wanted.

‘Out of three?’  Sam had said.  Then added:  ‘Your break.’  He waited for the break, he waited for the mediocre first plays, and then he cleared the table with two shots, re-set the balls, broke, and cleared the table.  Sam had slid all the cash off the table, pocketed it, and tapped the pool cue once on the table, raised his eyebrows, signaled the men to the door. They left.  Jess wondered exactly what it was that those men knew about Sam Winchester, and if she wanted to know, or if she should just turn around and drive to her parents house.

Jess went over Sam’s last night with Dean in her head, she drove up the hill where he and Dean would have ended the evening and looked for Sam somewhere up there.  She turned off her lights and put her car in neutral, how she thought she could sneak up on Sam she didn’t know, and she didn’t have to anyhow.  Sam was sitting on the hood of a ‘63 Mustang, chest bare, arms hugging his knees, gun dangling from one hand, and Sam looking up at the stars, looking so Sam.  She let her car roll to the side of the road as Sam watched her, stopped the engine, and wordlessly walked over to Sam and took the gun out of his hand.  She had never held a gun before tonight, she didn’t like it, she thought she might not like whatever it was that was _really_ Sam’s secret.  Jess set the gun in the glove compartment of her car, settled next to Sam on the hood, she handed Sam his hoodie, shifted up close to him, and held his hand watching the night sky pass by. 

There wasn’t a good way out of this, out of this problem, this relationship, this moment.

Jess sat next to Sam and waited for him to say something, an apology for instance would be good, she would be open to a good, great even, explanation of who the hell he really is.  There were these moments that she wanted to write off that had been dredged into her mind, nights when she would see a bright flash of anger on Sam’s face before he went running, afternoons when he balled up his fists as some guy flirted with her, times when his eyes narrowed watching Brady and she swore she saw Sam’s lip curl up, god sometimes she swore she saw things just move around Sam, and the knife, and the guns, and the fuck knows what else.  Jess wondered if she remembered anything right, if Brady were right, if she was sitting next to the wolf and holding his hand, hoping that he would explain his furry self and they would live happily ever after. 

The sun came up, and it wasn’t really a fairy tale ending, and Jess still had Sam’s journal and gun in her glove compartment, and her boyfriend had threatened to hurt himself, to kill himself even, in the kitchen, and she hadn’t trusted her parents enough to ask for help.

“Whose car…” Jess doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Sam cuts her off with “I stole it...”  Jess tugs him into her car, he probably stole it well and didn’t leave evidence so they may as well go home, and he can clean the damn apartment himself. 

Jess doesn’t think that castrating her wolf will make a house pet of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you for reading...that's on the assumption you got this far. Second, comments make me happy, I think. (I may need more medication, but let's try comments first?) Third, I knew 'Like a dog' would be personal, and complicated; I was worried that this would be a rather cold add-on, but so far this has been much more emotional to write than I thought, the characters promptly got out of hand and challenged me, Jess isn't anything like me, which I thought she would be, I still relate to Sam...it turns out I have gender issues (uh, yeah, I did sort of know that before -- see all of like a dog). The grammar, I never knew what 'past perfect' actually meant before, but putting the tenses together consistently has been a challenge, I hope it got it right. Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Sam, after years of struggling, is castrated. The castration is told from Sam's POV but he is on Ketamine, so it is, well, it is ketamine. Sam still struggles, and hasn't dealt with what to do after the surgery. Jess is supportive and as out of her depth as Sam is out of his. Dean is absent, notably absent. 
> 
> I guess saying "sorry it took so long" is rather meaningless when it's been, what, about a year?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ketamine, ah, ketamine, dissociative anesthesia, still used, but rather more carefully than it was in the '70's and '80's. Also used as a party drug, but things can go wrong, very, very wrong.

‘Dr.’ Smith’s voice is steady. ‘ _Someone needs to be steady_ ,’ Jess thinks—even as she second guesses the idea that ‘Dr. Smith’ is a doctor at all—right now Jess just needs to think about something other than loosing Sam; but ‘ _someone_ ’ is the operative word—and that is part of what troubles Jess, deeply—Sam is about to be corrected (Jess wonders, by way of distraction, if that is the correct word to use, she doesn’t really give a shit anymore, she just wants it done, but she needs something to think about so she doesn’t throw up from fear) by a man whose name they don’t know; they know _a_ name, dr. ‘call me Mike’ Smith. Jess isn’t sure, and she’s pretty sure Sam isn’t either, that Mike really is a doctor, they are both sure that Mike Smith isn’t his real name.  Jess couldn’t shake the internet images of fucked up castrations, of infections, of mutilated groins, videos of men only half tranquilized being cut for someone else’s pleasure, Jess was plenty sure the only way to get this done safely was Thailand, and they didn’t have the money, even with what they had from her mother, they just didn’t.  Jess didn’t think that shady connections and internet testimonials and pictures of his good work – _videos available for a fee_ – were enough.

Jess had suggested to Sam that he take something, vicodan, valium, Prozac, smoke a fucking joint, anything, to take the edge off this last week, these latest few frantic days when it became clear to her that this was happening now, devastatingly obvious that she would loose Sam to this if they did nothing; there was the fear that stuck in her throat and stopped her speaking out about maybe they should ask her Dad, the fear that tasted like tears and cigarettes, and bitterness at the hand that Sam was dealt,  fear that said Sam might die anyhow, but at least who would die as who he really was.    Sam had refused the drugs.   

Jess usually carried a little something in her purse, and her Mom had re-supplied her this week ‘just running by’ her Mom had claimed, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary but leaving them a hefty cash gift, paired with the money that Sam had made fuck knows how (Jess really didn’t want to know how anymore, she thought it was probably pool, but maybe it was grand-larceny, or perhaps assassination) which was making all this suddenly possible, it would have had to be ten times that much to make it safe, it was the kind of cash gift for which you sell only a small portion of your soul, and Jess let her Mom buy whatever fealty it was she wanted in exchange for Sam’s life; after almost two, three, years of saying ‘No’ to money, in nearly this amount – college was enough, more than enough, bad enough –  Jess said ‘Yes’; her Mom wondered if, and hoped it was, enough to make a difference to Sam.  Sam was restless, getting his papers done early, studying ahead, running until he came home ready to throw up, playing with his phone when he didn’t think Jess was watching.  Jess didn’t think he slept at all, she knew he tried to call Dean, she had checked his phone while he was out running, she knew Sam leaving his phone, leaving the call log un-erased, for her to find wasn’t careless – it was intentional;  he hadn’t let the calls go through though she didn’t think, he had hung up after a couple of seconds every time.  She didn’t know what he was trying to tell her, but she wasn’t in a place where she could handle another confrontation; so she watched, and took the occasional valium and oxycodone, and Sam ran, and studied, and barely ate, and they dug into websites and chat rooms. Jess knew Sam was barley holding it together, and next time there was a melt down Sam would either shoot himself in the living room, or take a knife to his own groin in the kitchen, probably with no better results.  Jess wondered if she was man enough to just deal, suck it up, and help Sam do it, Jess wonders if she should call her Dad, if her silence was taking respecting Sam too far, if her respect was becoming as pathological as Sam’s secrecy; as sick her secrecy, her lies, omissions of fact to Sam, but her issues aren’t what’s on the table right now.

 

Jess had known forever, since that first not-a-date – her favorite date ever ever – that this was inevitable, who Sam is, that Sam was going to have to do this; Sam was her sweet boy sitting next to her waiting for the doctor, and when he came out of surgery he was going to be the man she had been waiting for – she knew this with a certainty that nestled against the fear that Sam would become something entirely other.   As nervous as she knew Sam should be his breathing was normal, his palms dry, sitting in an orange plastic chair he seemed relaxed, more relaxed than he had been in months, and it scared the shit out of Jess.  Sam accepted whatever outcome they would have as inevitable; and Jess could think of outcomes she really didn’t want. Jess, sitting next to Sam, sweaty from her own anxiety and poor air-conditioning, lets him reach over and take her strong artist’s hand in his, and stroke his thumb over the spot where her engagement ring will sit. Jess wants to believe that’s a promise. 

The run down motel room converted into an office and what had been a glorified kitchenette was now a ‘surgery’, hidden through the only door Jess guesses there is a bathroom.  Jess watches, edgy in her dingy surrounds, she’s seen more made from less, but that she even thought about the conditions at some of the makeshift offices near the mission, and they were better, makes Jess less than confident this is a safe place for Sam.  Jess knows the surgery at the mission itself is always spotless, hell she cleaned it, cleaned everything, sterilized everything – clorox is your friend – and this just isn’t that way, this isn’t kept and cared for, this is fast and dirty and less than Sam deserves.  This Jess knows, but she keeps to herself because this is their last attempt, only option, because she’s not brave enough to do it, Sam shouldn’t, it’s just too easy to screw it up like that, so this is their only option, they can’t afford to travel, or a real clinic here in the States if they could find anyone who would, Jess wishes the could have found a vet, but this is their only option like that’s an option at all.  Jess knows this isn’t clean enough and it is dangerous. Jess knows this is the moment she could call her Dad, pick her phone up out of her purse, and here, in front of Sam, call her Dad, tell him what Sam needs, and ask for his help.  Jess closes her eyes, listens to Sam’s breathing, too controlled now, not really relaxed, just that fake ok he had played at for years.  Jess tries not to shift in her seat, not to show how uncomfortable she is, keep her fear secret.  Jess reminds herself that any doctor who does this looses their license—even if she said it was for a friend, not Sam, her Dad wouldn’t really be able to tell them where to go, she knows that, and Sam doesn’t want anyone to know, and Sam’s right, this is the kind of story a guy can never shake loose of, of which a guy can never shake loose, Jess corrects herself.  Jess really doesn’t want to explain this to her father:  that her nearly fiancé is being castrated, and once they do that he and Jess will get married, and they will have a family, and they will live happily ever after.  That a mystery guy called dr. Mike Smith is their safest option is, oh God, (and when did she start calling on god again, praying is Sam’s thing), but it’s horrible. Jess wonders if she should call her Dad before it’s too late.

As dr. Smith slides through the door, joining them in the dingy room, Jess looks him over, she can’t see a thing from the outside that would tell her if he is actually a perverted murderous rapist in disguise, she thinks there may be more monsters around than she has previously known, given Sam’s journal he’s either mad or the world is full of danger, and from what the internet had had to say it seemed like a distinct probability that a psychopath is going to be altering Sam—a possibility of which Jess hasn’t lost sight. 

“I _am_ a doctor.” Dr. Smith states, helpfully. (‘Probably a question he gets a lot.’ Jess mutters underneath her breath.) Dr. Smith pauses, and waves a hand more dismissively than Jess is entirely happy with, “I did loose my license,” he adds, seemingly unperturbed, even cheerful about that, he looks around at his make shift office, “because of this.”   He walks to the other side of the desk, brown pressed trousers, blue pressed shirt, tie out of the seventies when large paisley was popular (that may be the least of their problems right now, but Jess still notices it), dark brown penny loafers, his feet make a soft swoosh on the stained cigarette burned rug, the fan struggles along with helpless inefficacy, Jess notes that his Rolex, while not fake, is bottom of the line. “Sam, you need to be sure, once you’re out you can’t change your mind, when they’re off they’re gone.’”  The look he gives Sam strikes Jess as predatory.  The man rambles on:  “This is a major life decision, one that you can’t reverse.”  Jess wants to hurt him.

Jess wants to yell at ‘Mike’ that he isn’t the person who watched Sam quite literally try to run away from what he is, run with the fury at being forced into being what he isn’t; wasn’t worried every day that something could go wrong while Sam grew into actually acting this instead of being terrified to talk about it; didn’t see Sam come home to dinner trying to control the clenching muscles in his jaw after sitting for hours in group therapy where he was still the anomaly, the thing who wasn’t becoming something understandable; didn’t see Sam attempt to type a paper while his hands were shaking from anger at, after months of trying, being asked to leave the gender transitions group; he wasn’t the person who watched Sam slip into she shadows instead of coming into their home mortified from a body modification workshop where he had been sexualized by strangers; hadn’t watched Sam pretending to research a paper after a marathon run the evening after the ‘binary nature of the trans conversation left him disenfranchised of his own body,’ meaning he left another group because he was hurt hurt hurt and didn’t fit in; he fled another group because he wasn’t performing a gender, he was being possessed by his body; Jess was beginning to hate Judith Butler; that doctor wasn’t the person who held Sam’s hand, who kissed Sam’s head, who ruffled Sam’s hair and wished they could be closer as the internet assured Sam the only use for a body like his was to be exhibited and exploited and trafficked. Jess was the person who had partied hard, and drunk harder not knowing Sam was so desperate that he would try at home that night to give her what she needed, because Sam wasn’t sure there would be another night; she was the one who had no idea what left Sam so desperate was a cold refusal of services by Stanford, he didn’t qualify as a surgical candidate, he barely even qualified for psychiatric services anymore, and this was something that might disqualify him from school scholarships if it came up again—apparently they could do that, ignore all rules and do that, from their point of view this wasn’t about medicine anymore, it was about conduct, it wasn’t about mental health it had become about madness.  Jess was the person who waited for Sam to move from callously excising his needs, staring at the wall, freezing himself out, to feeling with his whole body that this was him, and without this he couldn’t be (a week a ago, only a week ago Sam accepted this, he’d known his whole damn life, and only a week ago). Jess is the person who is going to mourn who Sam was, while she watches Sam grieve who he could have been.  Jess had stood terrified while Sam heated a knife on the burner, while he had let go of this being a perversion, a mutilation, a desecration of a sort, to being who he is and beautiful and whole; Jess is the one who grew into those ideas as Sam lived them, who made those changes even as Sam didn’t talk about them. 

She was the one who had read Sam’s diary.

So yes, they are fucking sure, thank you very, very much, they are so sure that they are willing to risk Sam’s health and his life. 

Jess sits clutching Sam’s hand while the doctor rattles off a list of complications, of side effects, of after care, and asks if Sam wants hormones – Sam looks at Jess, Jess is aware there is no plan for after, all there is a plan for right now – he tells Sam how to get a regular supply, says he will leave some patches for Sam for now, looks at Jess sympathetically, and tells both of them out right that he doesn’t like to take the sac at the same time as the testicles.  Sam tells the doctor, bluntly, almost short, that it’s all he and Jess can afford right now, and this what they will be doing – Sam isn’t a vulnerable boy in that moment, he’s a confident controlled man, and Jess knows what she will be getting; and Jess knows Sam needs this so she doesn’t say anything about the added danger – the doctor nods, doesn’t quite smile, but gets a look to him that Jess thinks is a little creepy. Mike tells Jess and Sam about the added risk; tells them that if anything goes wrong he takes no responsibility (which he would never have taken anyhow Jess adds to herself), that he will call an ambulance and either way they will never see them again, he tells them that anesthesia is the biggest risk, that to keep Sam’s risk low the surgery will need to be done quickly, and asks them to reconsider doing this as two surgeries; he doesn’t extend credit, he’s sure they understand.  He tells Jess she will need to take Sam home ahead of 11 the next morning, he however recommends that same evening – to absolutely avoid questions – and that she should, if possible have friends to help, while Sam should be up and walking as soon as possible they didn’t want to strain the stitches and increase the (serious) risk of a scrotal hernia. Jess is so aware that they don’t have anyone else – that would be Dean – who can help Sam; it’s anger that makes her chew her bottom lip this time, not fear.  Jess shakes her head, and Mike says he understands their need for privacy, and he can guarantee that—and he can: he only takes cash, and he doesn’t know Sam’s last name. 

Dr.Smith says to Sam, and Sam nearly believes him – but Sam’s spent most of his life around people who lie, believing isn’t something he does do by accident – that he, Mike Smith, wants to do this as safely for Sam as possible, but that this isn’t a minor surgery on an adult man.  Sam flinches at that word, and Dr.Smith notices, but Jess doesn’t react, or maybe she is used to it by now.  Jess doesn’t think there’s much safe about this set-up, and she’d like to be out of here well before eleven the next morning. The doctor asks for time alone with Sam.  He asks Jess if she would like to come back, if she would like to be with Sam for the surgery, Sam holds his breath.  “No.” she says, it was undecided until that moment, and Jess lets go of Sam’s hand.  

 

Jess kisses my forehead, brushes my hair back, “I love you.” we don’t say that, so I say it back.  “I’ll have you back after, all of you.” Jess promises, and I believe her.  Smith promises to text her when we are done.

 

But Jess, she’s a Stanford girl, she has her act together, she already booked the room next door, she listens, stethoscope (present from her Dad for helping out at the mission, long ago when she was still going to be a doctor) pushed up against the wall:   _Do you want to be circumcised?  Piercings?  Branding?  Art work you would like saved if possible?  What about your penis?  Are you planning a penile amputation or excision in the future?_ He describes the procedures and Jess can almost hear him stroking himself through his pants, she hopes Sam isn’t really being subjected to he doctor really doing that. She knows Sam is already choking on discomfort, enduring this for the outcome too close at hand to be dismissed. She knows Sam has to have this, and he is at a place where he would do almost anything. _Would you like your nipples removed?  Pierced?_   _It could all be paid for by putting it on tape._   Sam pauses and Jess holds her breath, and no, Sam would rather just do it cash.  Jess swallows, she never wants Sam to be objectified like that, would never wish it on him, but if it’s safer maybe they should.  She knows Sam would be humiliated.    _Would Sam like his testicles and sac destroyed by the good doctor, make into jewelry for Jess maybe?  He knows someone who would do it.  Take them home._   He makes them sound like normal questions.  Sam asks that all his tissues be sent, discreetly, home with him, Jess thinks that’s not an entirely normal answer.  Is he going to salt and burn them like the ghosts of his childhood, so they don’t haunt him?  Jess considers the idea, again, that Sam is maybe a bit mad, settles on she doesn’t give a shit, she loves him, he could be the king of hell himself and she really wouldn’t care.

He asks if Sam hurts himself, to which the answer is yes, and he asks Sam if he will continue hurting himself, to which the answer is that Sam doesn’t know.   Jess feels a sick ‘yes’ forming in her own throat though.

 

He asks me if I want to be a woman, to which the answer is ‘No and I wish people would stop asking,’ and the doctor chuckles sympathetically.  He asks me if I want to be a man, and I can’t answer, he asks me if I want to be eunuch, and I say ‘No, I don’t think so.’ And he nods, as though he thinks that’s a good enough answer.  He asks me if I have thought about sex after and I shake my head, he makes a noise that conveys some understanding.  “I can’t.” I say.  “Does Jess know that you might not want…”  he almost asks.   I shake my head. I can’t tell her that, not until I know; and I know it’s  not fair. 

“Do you want hormones Sam?”  He asks again, and then recommends that I use some at the very least to help with my ‘transition.’  There’s not a transition, there’s just me.

He asks me how I want to be tranquilized, if I want to be tranquilized, or anesthetized, if I want to feel it.  Mostly he’s telling me what things cost.

“I’ve got ketamine.” I tell him. I told him before, but most normal people probably don’t show up with tranquilizers stowed in their girlfriend’s purse.

No valium, no prozak, nothing for my nerves, I’m scared as hell, someone has to touch me; after that, this, it will be over. No one other than Dean and Jess that one horrible night, have seen me naked, has seen my cock and with my balls below; now I wish Dean was here, I want Dean’s verdict, or his blessing, just his presence.  I want Dean.  Dean would stay with me.

I undress myself, put my hoodie, metalica tee, sweat pants and boxers (don’t wear underwear for at least a week) into a bag, leave my t-shirt on. I arrange myself on a melamine slab, formerly a kitchen island, and too short, paper sheets cover my crotch, shaved and washed, slathered in iodine solution, as instructed, as best as I can. I haven’t eaten in more than a day, I write my tremor off to hunger.  I’m thirsty.  My eyeballs are sandy, and my lips cracked.  My tongue feels swollen. I am aware of my nipples pebbling under the cotton t-shirt I still have on, I wish they wouldn’t.  My cock jumps slightly as the cold air hits when I lift my feet into the jerry-rigged stirrups.  I look away, pretend I’m not aware of the weight between my legs, of the heat and heaviness, of the pulse. My stomach turns over. 

Everything is going to be alright; when has that happened to any of us?

Smith is quietly professional – licensed or not – he sets the IV line, he swabs the crook of my arm with alcohol, sticks me as easily as Dean did, sets saline running.  He’s a quiet man, slightly round, as though his solace in life is food, I wonder if that is how it will be for me after.  Smith smiles – ironically might be the word – as I look him over, as he sorts needles and vials, as he asks me a myriad of questions, and writes the answers on a sheet.  His hands are pinker than his face, some sun spots on them visible though the latex gloves, blond hairs, matching the mop of sandy blond on his head.  “Yes, I did it.” I let myself half smile, because I was wondering, but it doesn’t really make things any better for me.  He takes my vitals, and uses me as a captive audience, tells me his story.  In all the groups I went to I never heard one, not fucking once, castrated man speak.  ‘I believe you have to.  Some of us have to, we are made this way.  No reason behind it, just are.’  He pauses, checking for gauze and stitching, setting everything methodically ready, ‘I do this so you don’t have to do what I did.’ My eyes follow him as he checks the vials of ketamine that I brought in and grunts in approval.  ‘I cut myself in the front seat of my car, in the parking lot outside of the ER, I nearly died, I didn’t want to die. I’m happy.’ he adds.  He doesn’t look directly at me much, ‘Sam,’ he says, ‘I hope this makes you happy.’  He putters, drawing syringes, ‘I was married,’ he says, ‘met her after, we had a family, it was a good life with her.’  He moves his tray between my legs suspended in the stirrups, ‘Sam, I knew who I was when I did this, when I got married, and Sam, you can’t answer me when I ask if you are a man.’  This is my last out, the last moment when I say, ‘No, wait, I don’t want this, I’m not sure.’ Or maybe I want to say, ‘More, take it all.  Knock me out, let me wake up with nothing between my legs.’  I shake my head, “Just please cut them off.”  I raise my head off the low starched pillow briefly, I want to say: ‘Let me have a chance at my own life.’ But I don’t, I don’t know him.  I lie down again and stare at the ceiling, avoiding him.

‘Ok.’ It’s as simple as that.

‘The ketamine,’ he doesn’t ask where I got it thank god – I’m still laying on my back, exposed my abs tremor, built in escape response waiting to be get me out of here – but he examines the vials carefully, he doesn’t know any more than I do if they are good, ‘isn’t long acting, which means I have to work fast.  We can risk two doses, after that it becomes too much of a crap shoot.’ He breathes out through slightly parted lips.  ‘You will be aware of yourself, of what I’m doing to you, this hurts, and you may feel it Sam, but I think you want to.’  He hides his face behind a surgical masks but continues speaking, ‘you will be dissociated, lost, it may not feel as though I am touching you, it may feel as though I am touching someone else’ which makes sense, because they are someone else, ‘you may experience yourself, as floating, as falling, you may feel as though I am reaching entirely inside you, you might feel as though you can’t breathe, you won’t be able to move Sam.  You may hallucinate.  You probably won’t remember it, no guarantees there though.’  There is a constant low throb in my groin and I want to be cut, I want this done now, I want to smell the iron of my own blood, I want to see those bloody pieces of tissue cut from me.  I shift uncomfortably.  ‘The ketamine should keep your vitals stable Sam, if your breathing becomes shallow or uneven, your blood pressure too high or too low I will close wherever I am in the surgery and leave, call 911, and have them pick you up.  No matter how much pain you are in or frightened you are your pulse and breathing should remain slow and steady.’  And yes, that’s all true, I’ve had surgery on ketamine before, but I’m not about to tell ‘Mike’ that. 

It doesn’t matter to me if he’s competent, it’s either this, an elastic band and a blade, or just my .45.  It matters to Jess.

‘Sam,’ he says to me, ‘I’m going to have to touch you.’  I nod. ‘If you are ok with that, we can go ahead.’  I nod again. 

He pulls the paper cover from over my crotch, and scrubs my genitals in iodine solution again – I can’t pull away, can’t close my eyes to the horror of admitting what my body is – tapes my cock out the way.  He bands my scrotum and forces my testicles low, the pulse of pain is no worse than what I do to myself.  The brand of the knife would normally have me arching against the pain, but I can’t move, I can’t gasp for breath, and I’m falling.  He is holding them, pulling them low between my legs, and they need to go, if he just rips them off I’m ok with that, I want to raise my head up so I can see him cut them, I can’t move.  First the left, the knife burns in, and his fingers enter me, reaching up inside me, pulling it out, snipping it free, setting it white and shining in a dish, salt and burn it later, I can’t move now, I want to open my mouth but I am being held down, the weight of my arms and legs bury me in the ground, my legs extend up to where he works hands in my groin, legs unable to pull together to instinctively protect myself from the knife, unable to fall further open to help him make me whole.  Another burn from the blade, a tug buried inside my groin, a pull that sends pain tearing into me, he is breaking it from me, ligaments, tissue, blood vessels, as he pulls the remaining ball away from my mutilated sac, and uses a blade to cut my sac clear.  Then its done.  My world slips from under me, and I struggle against hands holding me, pulling me, something that I can’t stop is happening.  I try to hold my breath but I can’t.  There’s too much smoke. Jess?  Where the hell is Jess?  Dean?  Why is Dean here?  I scream, god I try to scream.

I’m flailing into thick nothingness again. 

Far away I hear a voice telling me that I’m castrated now, I smell my flesh burning, sharp pains where there is nothing between my legs heat as blood vessels are cauterized, familiar, welcome pain as he cuts though the sensitive skin again and again, the hurried prick of stitching, forming a rhythm against the back drop of pain, and the lovely, open smoothness that was always meant to be there, just a little more hurt and I will have my body back. 

 

I swear I can hear him scream; I open my phone again to check for texts, and I smoke another cigarette.  From where I am sitting I hear him scream. 

 


End file.
